«»HYPERION* 


LONGFELLOW 


* 

HOUGHTON.MIFFLIN  &Co. 
BOSTON 


LIBRARY 

OF  THF. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

<T!  KX  OK 


Received 
Accession  No.   %  H        3O-    Class  No. 


HYPERION 


A   ROMANCE 


BY 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


REVISED    EDITION 


"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely 
improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:   11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

fltfc  fttem&e  ^restf,  Camfcri&0e 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  years  1857  and  i86<j  by 

HENRY  \V>»PSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 

Z2&.  30 


The  Riverside  Press,  CVr>  '  -<s.,  U.  S.  A. 

Printed  by  H-  O.  Hou3luon  £  Company. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK    I. 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.   THE  HERO      .......  7 

II.   THE  CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH    ...  12 

III.  HOMUNCULUS 24 

IV.  THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER     .        .        .  31 
V.   JEAN  PAUL,  THE  ONLY-ONE  ....  37 

VI.    HEIDELBERG  AND  THE  BARON   ...  49 

VII.   LIVES  OF  SCHOLARS 58 

VIII.   LITERARY  FAME 72 


BOOK    II. 

I.   SPRING 91 

II.   A  COLLOQUY 95 

III.  OWL-TOWERS 101 

IV.  A  BEER-SCANDAL        .       .        .        .        .  .  in 

V.   THE  WHITE  LADY'S  SLIPPER  AND  THE  PAS 
SION-FLOWER       ... . 122 

VI.   GLIMPSES  INTO  CLOUD-LAND     .       ..T      ,,  128 

VII.   MILL- WHEELS  AND  OTHER  WHEELS      .        .  148 

VIII.  GOETHE  160 


iv  Contents 

IX.   THE  DAYLIGHT  OF  THE  DWARFS,  AND  THE 

FALLING  STAR 169 

X.   THE  PARTING 183 

BOOK    III. 

I.   SUMMER-TIME 195 

II.   FOOT-TRAVELLING 201 

III.  INTERLACHEN  .        .        .      ...        .        .        .211 

IV.  THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING  STAR  .  222 
V.  A  RAINY  DAY        r       .        .        .       .        .  230 

VL   AFTER  DINNER,  AND  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF 

THE  BEST  CRITICS              .       „       .  247 

VII.    TAKE  CARE         ......  260 

VIII.   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION        .       .       .  267 

IX.   A  TALK  ON  THE  STAIRS    ,  280 


BOOK    IV. 

I.  A  MISERERE   .        .       «       ,.       .        .  .291 

II.  CURFEW  BELLS 298 

III.  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALL       .        .        .  .311 

IV.  MUSICAL  SUFFERINGS  OF  JOHN  KREISLER  325 
V.  SAINT  GILGEN                                .        .  337 

VI.  SAINT  WOLFGANG      ;       .       .               .  346 

VII.  THE  STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS  .  .    360 

VIII.  FOOTPRINTS  OF  ANGELS     ...       .  373 

IX.  THE  LAST  PANG    .       ...       .  .382 


HYPERION 


A    ROMANCE 


"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely 
improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  fonh  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future, 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 


BOOK    THE    FIRST 

CHAPTER    I. 
The  Hero 

IN  John  Lyly's  "Endymion,"  Sir  Topas  is 
made  to  say :  "  Dost  thou  know  what  a 
poet  is  ?  Why,  fool,  a  poet  is  as  much  as 
one  should  say,  —  a  poet !  "  And  thou,  reader, 
dost  thou  know  what  a  hero  is  ?  Why,  a  hero 
is  as  much  as  one  should  say, — a  hero !  Some 
romance-writers,  however,  say  much  more  than 
this.  Nay,  the  old  Lombard,  Matteo  Maria 
Bojardo,  set  all  the  church-bells  in  Scandiano 
ringing,  merely  because  he  had  found  a  name 
for  one  of  his  heroes.  Here,  also,  shall  church- 
bells  be  rung,  but  more  solemnly. 

The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  set 
ting  of  the  sun.  The  brightness  of  our  life 
is  gone.  Shadows  of  evening  fall  around  us, 
and  the  world  seems  but  a  dim  reflection, — 
itself  a  broader  shadow.  We  look  forward 


8  Hyperion 

into  the  coming  lonely  night.  The  soul  with 
draws  into  itself.  Then  stars  arise,  and  the 
night  is  holy. 

Paul  Flemming  had  experienced  this,  though 
still  young.  The  friend  of  his  youth  was  dead. 
The  bough  had  broken  "  under  the  burden  of 
the  unripe  fruit."  And  when,  after  a  season, 
he  looked  up  again  from  the  blindness  of  his 
sorrow,  all  things  seemed  unreal.  Like  the 
man  whose  sight  had  been  restored  by  mira 
cle,  he  beheld  men,  as  trees,  walking.  His 
household  gods  were  broken.  He  had  no 
home.  His  sympathies  cried  aloud  from  his 
desolate  sou],  and  there  came  no  answer  from 
the  busy,  turbulent  world  around  him.  He 
did  not  willingly  give  way  to  grief.  He  strug 
gled  to  be  cheerful,  —  to  be  strong.  But  he 
could  no  longer  look  into  the  familiar  faces 
of  his  friends.  He  could  no  longer  live  alone, 
where  he  had  lived  with  her.  He  went  abroad, 
that  the  sea  might  be  between  him  and  the 
grave.  Alas !  between  him  and  his  sorrow 
there  could  be  no  sea,  but  that  of  time. 

He  had  already  passed  many  months  in 
lonely  wandering,  and  was  now  pursuing  his 
way  along  the  Rhine,  to  the  South  of  Ger 
many.  He  had  journeyed  the  same  way  be- 


A  Romance  c, 

fore,  in  brighter  days  and  a  brighter  season 
01'  the  year,  in  the  May  of  life  and  in  the 
month  of  May.  He  knew  the  beautiful  river 
all  by  heart,  —  every  rock  and  ruin,  every 
echo,  every  legend.  The  ancient  castles,  grim 
and  hoar,  that  had  taken  root  as  it  were 
on  the  cliffs,  —  they  were  all  his  ;  for  his 
thoughts  dwelt  in  them,  and  the  wind  told 
him  tales. 

He  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  at  Roland- 
seek,  and  had  risen  before  daybreak.  He 
opened  the  window  of  the  balcony  to  hear 
the  rushing  of  the  Rhine.  It  was  a  damp 
December  morning ;  and  clouds  were  pass 
ing  over  the  sky,  —  thin,  vapory  clouds,  whose 
snow-white  skirts  were  "  often  spotted  with 
golden  tears,  which  men  call  stars."  The  day 
dawned  slowly  ;  and,  in  the  mingling  of  day 
light  and  starlight,  the  island  and  cloister  of 
Nonnenwerth  made  together  but  one  broad, 
dark  shadow  on  the  silver  breast  of  the  river. 
Beyond,  rose  the  summits  of  the  Siebengebirg. 
Solemn  and  dark,  like  a  monk,  stood  the 
Drachenfels,  in  his  hood  of  mist ;  and  rear 
ward  extended  the  curtain  of  mountains,  back 
to  the  Wolkenburg,  —  the  Castle  of  Clouds. 

But   Flemming   thought  not    of  the    scene 


i  o  Hyperion 

before  him.  Sorrow  unspeakable  was  upon 
his  spirit  in  that  lonely  hour  ;  and,  hiding  his 
face  in  his  hands,  he  exclaimed  aloud  :  — 

"  Spirit  of  the  past !  look  not  so  mournfully 
at  me  with  thy  great  tearful  eyes !  Touch  me 
not  with  thy  cold  hand !  Breathe  not  upon 
me  with  the  icy  breath  of  the  grave !  Chant 
no  more  that  dirge  of  sorrow,  through  the 
long  and  silent  watches  of  the  night ! "  S 

Mournful  voices  from  afar  seemed  to  an 
swer,  "  Treuenfels  !  "  and  he  remembered  how 
others  had  suffered,  and  his  heart  grew  still. 

Slowly  the  landscape  brightened.  Down 
,  the  rushing  stream  came  a  boat,  with  its 
white  wings  spread,  and  darted  like  a  swallow 
through  the  narrow  pass  of  God's-Help.  The 
boatmen  were  singing,  —  but  not  the  song  of 
Roland  the  Brave,  which  was  heard  of  old 
by  the  weeping  Hildegund,  as  she  sat  within 
the  walls  of  that  cloister  which  now  looked 
forth  in  the  pale  morning  from  amid  the  leaf 
less  linden-trees.  The  dim  traditions  of  those 
gray  old  times  rose  in  the  traveller's  memory  ; 
for  the  ruined  tower  of  Rolandseck  was  still 
looking  down  upon  the  Kloster  Nonnenwerth, 
as  if  the  sound  of  the  funeral  bell  had  changed 
the  faithful  paladin  to  stone  and  he  were 


A   Romance  \  i 

watching  still  to  see  the  form  of  his  beloved 
one  come  forth,  not  from  her  cloister,  but 
from  her  grave.  Thus  the  brazen  clasps  of 
the  book  of  legends  were  opened,  and,  on 
the  page  illuminated  by  the  misty  rays  of 
the  rising  sun,  he  read  again  the  tales  of  Liba, 
and  the  mournful  bride  of  Argenfels,  and  Sieg 
fried,  the  mighty  slayer  of  the  dragon.  Mean 
while  the  mists  had  risen  from  the  Rhine,  and 
the  whole  air  was  filled  with  golden  vapor, 
through  which  he  beheld  the  sun,  hanging  in 
heaven  like  a  drop  of  blood.  Even  thus 
shone  the  sun  within  him,  amid  the  wintry 
vapors  uprising  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  through  which  flowed  the  stream  of 
his  life,  —  sighing,  sighing! 


1 2  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    II. 
The  Christ  of  Andcrnach 

T)AUL  FLEMMING  resumed  his  solitary 
J-  journey.  The  morning  was  still  misty, 
but  not  cold.  Across  the  Rhine  the  sun  came 
wading  through  the  reddish  vapors  ;  and  soft 
and  silver-white  outspread  the  broad  river, 
without  a  ripple  upon  its  surface,  or  visible 
motion  of  the  ever-moving  current.  A  little 
vessel,  with  one  loose  sail,  was  riding  at  an 
chor,  keel  to  keel  with  another  that  lay  be 
neath  it,  its  own  apparition,  —  and  all  was 
silent,  and  calm,  and  beautiful. 

The  road  was  for  the  most  part  solitary  ; 
for  there  are  few  travellers  upon  the  Rhine 
in  winter.  Peasant-women  were  at  work  in 
the  vineyards,  climbing  up  the  slippery  hill 
sides,  like  beasts  of  burden,  with  large  baskets 
upon  their  backs.  And  once  during  the  morn 
ing  a  band  of  apprentices,  with  knapsacks, 
passed  by,  singing,  "The  Rhine!  the  Rhine! 
a  blessing  on  the  Rhine  ! " 


A  Romance  1 3 

O,  the  pride  of  the  German  heart  in  this 
noble  river !  And  right  it  is  ;  for,  of  all  the 
rivers  of  this  beautiful  earth,  there  is  none 
so  beautiful  as  this.  There  is  hardly  a  league 
of  its  whole  course,  from  its  cradle  in  the 
snowy  Alps  to  its  grave  in  the  sands  of  Hol 
land,  which  boasts  not  its  peculiar  charms. 
By  heavens !  If  I  were  a  German,  I  would  be 
proud  of  it  too  ;  and  of  the  clustering  grapes 
that  hang  about  its  temples,  as  it  reels  on 
ward  through  vineyards  in  a  triumphal  march, 
like  Bacchus  crowned  and  drunken. 

But  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  Rhine ; 
it  would  make  this  chapter  much  too  long. 
And  to  do  it  well,  one  should  write  like  a 
god  ;  and  his  language  flow  onward  royally 
with  breaks  and  dashes,  like  the  waters  of  that 
royal  river,  and  antique,  quaint,  and  Gothic 
times  be  reflected  in  it.  Alas !  this  even 
ing  mine  flows  not  at  all.  Flow,  then,  into 
this  smoke-colored  goblet,  thou  blood  of  the 
Rhine  !  out  of  thy  prison-house,  —  out  of 
thy  long-necked,  tapering  flask,  in  shape 
not  unlike  a  church-spire  among  thy  native 
hills  ;  and  from  the  crystal  belfry  loud  ring 
the  merry  tinkling  bells,  while  I  drink  a 
health  to  my  hero,  in  whose  heart  is  sad- 


1 4  Hyperion 

ness,  and  in  whose  ears  the  bells  of  Ander- 
nach  are  ringing  noon.  s 

He  is  threading  his  way  alone  through  a 
narrow  alley,  and  now  up  a  flight  of  stone 
steps,  and  along  the  city  wall,  towards  that 
old  round  tower  built  by  the  Archbishop 
Frederick  of  Cologne  in  the  twelfth  century. 
It  has  a  romantic  interest  in  his  eyes  ;  for  he 
has  still  in  his  mind  and  heart  that  beautiful 
sketch  of  Carovc,  in  which  is  described  a  day 
on  the  tower  of  Andernach.  He  finds  the 
old  keeper  and  his  wife  still  there  ;  and  the 
old  keeper  closes  the  door  behind  him  slowly, 
as  of  yore,  lest  he  should  jam  too  hard  the 
poor  souls  in  purgatory,  whose  fate  it  is  to 
suffer  in  the  cracks  of  doors  and  hinges.  But, 
alas !  alas !  the  daughter,  the  maiden  with 
long,  dark  eyelashes !  she  is  asleep  in  her 
little  grave,  under  the  linden-trees  of  I7eld- 
kirche,  with  rosemary  in  her  folded  hands  ! 

Flemming  returned  to  the  hotel  disappoint 
ed.  As  he  passed  along  the  narrow  streets, 
he  was  dreaming  of  many  things  ;  but  mostly 
of  the  keeper's  daughter,  asleep  in  the  church 
yard  of  Feldkirche.  Suddenly,  on  turning 
the  corner  of  an  ancient,  gloomy  church,  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  little  chapel  in 


A  Romance  15 

an  angle  of  the  wall.  \\.  was  only  a  small 
thaeched  roof,  like  a  bird's  nest ;  under  which 
stood  a  rude  wooden  image  of  the  Saviour 
on  the  cross.  A  real  crown  of  thorns  was 
upon  his  head,  which  was  bowed  downward, 
as  if  in  the  death  agony  ;  and  drops  of  blood 
were  falling  down  his  cheeks,  and  from  his 
hands  and  feet  and  side.  *  The  face  was  hag 
gard  and  ghastly  beyond  expression,  and  wore 
a  look  of  unutterable  bodily  anguish.  The 
rude  sculptor  had  given  it  this,  but  his  art 
could  go  no  further.  The  sublimity  of  death 
in  a  dying  Saviour,  the  expiring  God-likeness 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  was  not  there.  The 
artist  had  caught  no  heavenly  inspiration  from 
his  theme.  All  was  coarse,  harsh,  and  re 
volting  to  a  sensitive  mind  ;  and  Flemming 
turned  away  with  a  shudder,  as  he  saw  this 
fearful  image  gazing  at  him,  with  its  fixed  and 
half-shut  eyes. 

He  soon  reached  the  hotel,  but  that  face 
of  agony  still  haunted  him.  He  could  not 
refrain  from  speaking  of  it  to  a  very  old 
woman,  who  sat  knitting  by  the  window  of 
the  dining-room,  in  a  high-backed,  old-fash 
ioned  arm-chair.  I  believe  she  was  the  inn 
keeper's  grandmother.  At  all  events,  she  was 


i  6  Hyperion 

old  enough  to  be  so.%  She  took  off  her  owl- 
eyed  spectacles)  and,  as  she  wiped  the  glasses 
with  her  handMrchief,  said :  — 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  !     Is  it  possible  ?     Did 
you  never  hear  of  the  Christ  of  Andernach  ? " 
Flemming  answered  in  the  negative. 
"  Thou   dear   Heaven  ! "   continued   the   old 
woman.     "  It  is  a  very  wonderful  story  ;  and 
a  true  one,  as  every  good  Christian  in  Ander 
nach  will  tell  you.     And  it  all  happened  be 
fore  the  death  of  my  blessed  man,  four  years 
ago ;  let  me  see,  —  yes,  four  years  ago,  come 
Christmas." 

Here  the  old  woman  stopped  speaking,  but 
went  on  with  her  knitting.  Other  thoughts 
seemed  to  occupy  her  mind.  She  was  think 
ing,  no  doubt,  of  her  blessed  man,  as  German 
widows  call  their  dead  husbands.  But  Flem 
ming  having  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  hear 
the  wonderful  story,  she  told  it,  in  nearly  the 
following  words. 

"  There  was  once  a  poor  old  woman  in  An 
dernach  whose  name  was  Frau  Martha,  and 
she  lived  all  alone  in  a  house  by  herself,  and 
loved  all  the  Saints  and  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
and  was  as  good  as  an  angel,  and  sold  tarts 
down  by  the  Khemkrahn.  But  her  house  was 


A  Romance  17 

very  old,  and  the  roof-tiles  were  broken,  and 
she  was  too  poor  to  get  new  ones,  and  the 
rain  kept  coming  in,  and  no  Christian  soul  in 
Andernach  would  help  her.  But  the  Frau 
Martha  was  a  good  woman,  and  never  did 
anybody  any  harm,  but  went  to  mass  every 
morning,  and  sold  tarts  down  by  the  Rhein- 
krahn.  Now  one  dark,  windy  night,  when  all 
the  good  Christians  in  Andernach  were  asleep 
in  the  feathers,  Frau  Martha,  who  lay  under 
the  roof,  heard  a  great  noise  over  her  head, 
and  in  her  chamber,  drip  !  drip  !  drip  !  as  if 
the  rain  were  dropping  down  through  the 
broken  tiles.  Dear  soul !  and,  sure  enough, 
it  was.  And  then  there  was  a  pounding  and 
hammering  overhead,  as  if  somebody  were  at 
work  on  the  roof;  and  she  thought  it  was 
Pelz-Nickel  tearing  the  tiles  off,  because  she 
had  not  been  to  confession  often  enough.  So 
she  began  to  pray  ;  and  the  faster  she  said 
her  Pater-noster  and  her  Ava-Maria,  the  faster 
Pelz-Nickel  pounded  and  pulled  ;  and  drip ! 
drip  !  drip  !  it  went  all  round  her  in  the  dark 
chamber,  till  the  poor  woman  was  frighten <*A 
out  of  her  wits,  and  ran  to  the  window  to 
call  for  help.  Then  in  a  moment  all  was  still, 
—  death-still.  But  she  saw  a  light  streaming 


1 8  Hyperion 

through  the  mist  and  rain,  and  a  great  shadow 
on  the  house  opposite.  And  then  somebody 
came  down  from  the  top  of  her  house  by  a 
ladder,  and  had  a  lantern  in  his  hand  ;  and 
he  took  the  ladder  on  his  shoulder  and  passed 
down  the  street.  But  she  could  not  see  clear 
ly,  because  the  window  was  streaked  with 
rain.  And  in  the  morning  the  old  broken 
tiles  were  found  scattered  about  the  street,  and 
there  were  new  ones  on  the  roof,  and  the  old 
house  has  never  leaked  to  this  blessed  day. 

"As  soon  as  mass  was  over,  Frau  Martha 
told  the  priest  what  had  happened,  and  he 
said  it  was  not  Pelz-Nickel,  but,  without  doubt, 
St.  Castor  or  St.  Florian.  Then  she  went  to 
the  market  and  told  Frau  Bridget  all  about 
it ;  and  Frau  Bridget  said,  that,  two  nights 
before,  Hans  Claus,  the  cooper,  had  heard  a 
great  pounding  in  his  shop,  and  in  the  morn 
ing  found  new  hoops  on  all  his  hogsheads ; 
and  that  a  man  with  a  lantern  and  a  ladder 
had  been  seen  riding  out  of  town  at  midnight 
on  a  donkey  ;  and  that  the  same  night  the 
old  windmill,  at  Kloster  St.  Thomas,  had  been 
mended,  and  the  old  gate  of  the  churchyard 
at  Feldkirche  made  as  good  as  new,  though 
nobody  knew  how  the  man  got  across  the 


A  Romance  19 

river.  1  Then  Fran  Martha  went  down  to  the 
Rheinkrahn  and  told  all  these  stories  over 
again ;  and  the  old  ferryman  of  Fahr  said 
he  could  tell  something  about  it ;  for,  the  very 
night  that  the  churchyard-gate  was  mended, 
he  was  lying  awake  in  his  bed,  because  he 
could  not  sleep,  and  he  heard  a  loud  knocking 
at  the  door,  and  somebody  calling  to  him  to 
get  up  and  set  him  over  the  river.  And  when 
he  got  up,  he  saw  a  man  down  by  the  river 
with  a  lantern  and  a  ladder  ;  but  as  he  was 
going  down  to  him,  the  man  blew  out  the 
light,  and  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not  see 
who  he  was  ;  and  his  boat  was  old  and  leaky, 
and  he  was  afraid  to  set  him  over  in  the  dark  ; 
but  the  man  said  he  must  be  in  Andernach 
that  night ;  and  so  he  set  him  over.  And 
after  they  had  crossed  the  river,  he  watched 
the  man,  till  he  came  to  an  image  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  saw  him  put  the  ladder 
against  the  wall,  and  go  up  and  light  his 
lamp,  and  then  walk  along  the  street.  And 
in  the  morning  he  found  his  old  boat  all 
calked,  and  tight,  and  painted  red,  and  he 
could  not  for  his  blessed  life  tell  who  did 
it,  unless  it  were  the  man  with  the  lantern. 
Dear  soul !  how  strange  it  was ! 


2O  Hyperion 

"  And  so  it  went  on  for  some  time  ;  and 
whenever  the  man  with  the  lantern  had  been 
seen  walking  through  the  street  at  night,  so 
sure  as  the  morning  came,  some  work  had 
been  done  for  the  sake  of  some  good  soul ; 
and  everybody  knew  he  did  it ;  and  yet  no 
body  could  find  out  who  he  was,  nor  where 
he  lived  ;  —  for,  whenever  anybody  came  near 
him,  he  blew  out  his  light,  turned  down  an 
other  street,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  nobody 
could  tell  how.  And  some  said  it  was  Rii- 
bezahl ;  and  some,  Pelz-Nickel ;  and  some,  St. 
Anthony -on-the-Heath. 

"  Now  one  stormy  night,  a  poor,  sinful  crea 
ture  was  wandering  about  the  streets,  with 
her  babe  in  her  arms,  and  she  was  hungry, 
and  cold,  and  no  soul  in  Andernach  would 
take  her  in.  And  when  she  came  to  the 
church,  where  the  great  crucifix  stands,  she 
saw  no  light  in  the  little  chapel  at  the  corner  ; 
but  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross  and  began  to  pray,  and  prayed  till  she 
fell  asleep,  with  her  poor  little  babe  on  her 
bosom.  But  she  did  not  sleep  long ;  for  a 
bright  light  shone  full  in  her  face  ;  and  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  pale  man, 
with  a  lantern,  standing  right  before  her.  He 


A   Romance  21 

was  ahriosi  j^aked  ;  and  there  was  blood  upon 
his  hands  and  body,  and  great  tears  in  his 
beautiful  eyes,  and  his  face  was  like  the  face 
of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross.  Not  a  single 
word  did  he  say  to  the  poor  woman ;  but 
looked  at  her  compassionately,  and  gave  her 
a  loaf  of  bread,  and  took  the  little  babe  in 
his  arms,  and  kissed  it.  Then  the  mother 
looked  up  to  the  great  crucifix,  but  there  was 
no  image  there ;  and  she  shrieked  and  fell 
down  as  if  she  were  dead.  And  there  she 
was  found  with  her  child  ;  and  a  few  days 
after,  they  both  died,  and  were  buried  together 
in  one  grave.  And  nobody  would  have  be 
lieved  her  story,  if  a  woman,  who  lived  at  the 
corner,  had  not  gone  to  the  window  when 
she  heard  the  scream,  and  seen  the  figure 
hang  the  lantern  up  in  its  place,  and  then 
set  the  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  go  up 
and  nail  itself  to  the  cross.  Since  that  night 
it  has  never  moved  again.  Ach  !  Herr  Je  !  " 

Such  was  the  legend  of  the  Christ  of  An- 
dernach,  as  the  old  woman  in  spectacles  told 
it  to  Flemming.  It  made  a  painful  impres 
sion  on  his  sick  and  morbid  soul  ;  and  he  felt 
now  for  the  first  time  how  great  is  the  power 
of  popular  superstition. 


2  2  Hyper  io)i 

The  post-chaise  being  already  at  the  door, 
Flemming  was  soon  on  the  road  to  Coblentz, 
a  town  which  stands  upon  the  Rhine,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Mosel,  opposite  Ehrenbreitstein. 
It  is  by  no  means  a  long  drive  from  Ander- 
nach  to  Coblentz ;  and  the  only  incident  which 
occurred  to  enliven  the  way  was  the  appear 
ance  of  a  fat,  red-faced  man  on  horseback, 
trotting  slowly  towards  Andernach.  As  they 
met,  the  mad  little  postilion  gave  him  a  friend 
ly  cut  with  his  whip,  and  broke  out  into  an 
exclamation,  which  showed  he  was  from  Miin- 
ster : — 

"  Jesmariosp  !  my  friend  !  How  is  the  Man 
in  the  Kaufhaus  ? " 

Now  to  any  candid  mind  this  would  seem  a 
fair  question  enough  ;  but  not  so  thought  the 
red-faced  man  on  horseback  ;  for  he  waxed  ex 
ceedingly  angry,  and  replied,  as  the  chaise 
whirled  by :  — 

"  The  devil  take  you,  and  your  Westphalian 
ham,  and  pumpernickel ! " 

Flemming  called  to  his  servant,  and  the  ser 
vant  to  the  postilion,  for  an  explanation  of  this 
short  dialogue  ;  and  the  explanation  was,  that 
on  the  belfry  of  the  Kaufhaus  in  Coblentz  iv 
a  huge  head  with  a  brazen  helmet  and  a  beard ; 


A   Romance  2  3 

and  whenever  the  clock  strikes,  at  each  stroke 
of  the  hammer,  this  giant's  head  opens  its  great 
jaws  and  smites  its  teeth  together,  as  if,  like 
the  brazen  head  of  Friar  Bacon,  it  would  say, 
"Time  was;  Time  is;  Time  is  past."  This 
figure  is  known  through  all  the  country  round 
about  as  "  The  Man  in  the  Kauf  haus  "  ;  and 
when  a  friend  in  the  country  meets  a  friend 
from  Coblentz,  instead  of  saying,  "  How  are 
all  the  good  people  in  Coblentz  ?  "  —  he  says, 
"  How  is  the  Man  in  the  Kauf  haus  ?  "  Thus 
the  giant  has  a  great  part  to  play  in  the  town. 
And  thus  ended  the  first  day  of  Flemming's 
Rhine-journey  ;  and  the  only  good  deed  he  had 
done  was  to  give  an  alms  to  a  poor  beggar 
woman,  who  lifted  up  her  trembling  hands  and 
exclaimed :  — 

"  Thou  blessed  babe !  ' 


24  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    III. 
Homunculus 

AFTER  all,  a  journey  up  the  Rhine,  in  the 
mists  and  solitude  of  December,  is  not  so 
unpleasant  as  the  reader  may  imagine.  You 
have  the  whole  road  and  river  to  yourself.  No 
body  is  on  the  wing  ;  hardly  a  single  traveller. 
The  ruins  are  the  same  ;  and  the  river,  and 
the  outlines  of  the  hills  ;  and  there  are  few 
living  figures  in  the  landscape  to  wake  you 
from  your  musings,  distract  your  thoughts,  and 
cover  you  with  dust. 

Thus  likewise  thought  our  traveller,  as  he 
continued  his  journey  on  the  morrow.  The 
day  is  overcast,  and  the  clouds  threaten  rain 
or  snow.  Why  does  he  stop  at  the  little  vil 
lage  of  Capellen  ?  Because,  right  above  him 
on  the  high  cliff,  the  glorious  ruin  of  Stolzen- 
fels  is  looking  at  him  with  its  hollow  eyes,  and 
beckoning  to  him  with  its  gigantic  finger,  as  if 
to  say,  "  Come  up  hither,  and  I  will  tell  thee 
an  old  tale."  Therefore  he  alights,  and  goes 


A  Romance  25 

up  the  narrow  village  lane,  and  up  the  stone 
steps,  and  up  the  steep  pathway,  and  throws 
himself  into  the  arms  of  that  ancient  ruin,  and 
holds  his  breath,  to  hear  the  quick  footsteps  of 
the  falling  snow,  like  the  footsteps  of  angels 
descending  upon  earth.  And  that  ancient 
ruin  speaks  to  him  with  its  hollow  voice,  and 
says : — 

"  Beware  of  dreams  !  Beware  of  the  illusions 
of  fancy !  Beware  of  the  solemn  deceivings 
of  thy  vast  desires  !  Beneath  me  flows  the 
Rhine,  and,, like  the  stream  of  Time,  it  flows 
amid  the  ruins  of  the  Past.  I  see  myself 
therein,  and  I  know  that  I  am  old.  Thou,  too, 
shalt  be  old.  Be  wise  in  season.  Like  the 
stream  of  thy  life  runs  the  stream  beneath  us. 
Down  from  the  distant  Alps,  —  out  into  the 
wide  world,  it  bursts  away,  like  a  youth  from 
the  house  of  his  fathers.  Broad-breasted  and 
strong,  and  with  earnest  endeavors,  like  man 
hood,  it  makes  itself  a  way  through  these 
difficult  mountain-passes.  And  at  length,  in 
its  old  age,  it  falters,  and  its  steps  are  weary 
and  slow,  and  it  sinks  into  the  sand,  and, 
through  its  grave,  passes  into  the  great  ocean, 
which  is  its  eternity.  Thus  shall  it  be  with 
thee. 


26  Hyperion 

"  In  ancient  times,  there  dwelt  within  these 
halls  a  follower  of  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  —  an 
Archbishop  in  the  Church  of  Christ.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  dreams  ;  to  the  illusions  of  fancy  ; 
to  the  vast  desires  of  the  human  soul.  He 
sought  after  the  impossible.  He  sought  after 
the  Elixir  of  Life,  —  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 
The  wealth  that  should  have  fed  the  poor  was 
melted  in  his  crucibles.  Within  these  walls 
the  Eagle  of  the  clouds  sucked  the  blood  of 
the  Red  Lion,  and  received  the  spiritual  love 
of  the  Green  Dragon;  but,  alasJ  was  child 
less.  In  solitude  and  utter  silence  did  the  dis 
ciple  of  the  Hermetic  Philosophy  toil  from  day 
to  day,  from  night  to  night.  Erom  the  place 
where  thou  standest,  he  gazed  at  evening  upon 
hills,  and  vales,  and  waters  spread  beneath 
him  ;  and  saw  how  the  setting  sun  had  changed 
them  all  to  gold,  by  an  alchemy  more  cunning 
than  his  own.  He  saw  the  world  beneath  his 
feet ;  and  said  in  his  heart,  that  he  alone  was 
wise.  Alas !  he  read  more  willingly  in  the 
book  of  Paracelsus  than  in  the  book  of  Nature  ; 
and,  believing  that  *  where  reason  hath  experi 
ence,  faith  hath  no  mind,'  would  fain  have  made 
unto  himself  i^  child,  as  the  Philosopher  taught, 
—  a  poor  homunculus,  in  a  glass  bottle.  And 
he  died  noor  and  childless!" 


A   Romance  27 

Whether  it  were  worth  while  to  climb  the 
Stolzenfels  to  hear  such  a  homily  as  this,  some 
persons  may  perhaps  doubt.  But  Paul  Flem- 
ming  doubted  not.  He  laid  the  lesson  to  heart ; 
and  it  would  have  saved  him  many  an  hour  of 
sorrow,  if  he  had  learned  that  lesson  better, 
and  remembered  it  longer. 

In  ancient  times,  there  stood  in  the  citadel 
of  Athens  three  statues  of  Minerva.  The  first 
was  of  olive-wood,  and,  according  to  popular 
tradition,  had  fallen  from  heaven.  The  second 
was  of  bronze,  commemorating  the  victory  of 
Marathon  ;  and  the  third  of  gold  ^nd  ivory,  — 
a  great  miracle  of  art,  in  the  ago  of  Pericles. 
And  thus  in  the  citadel  of  Time  stands  Man 
himself.  In  childhood,  shaped  of  £x>ft  and  deli 
cate  wood,  just  fallen  from  heaven  ;  in  man 
hood,  a  statue  of  bronze,  commemorating 
struggle  and  victory  ;  and,  lastly,  in  the  ma 
turity  of  age,  perfectly  shaped  in  gold  and 
ivory,  —  a  miracle  of  art ! 

Flemming  had  already  lived  through  the 
olive  age..  He  was  passing  inro  the  age  of 
bronze,  into  his  early  manhood  ;  nr,d  in  his 
hands  the  flowers  of  Paradise  we1  e  changing 
to  the  sword  and  shield. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  not  yet  de 


28  Hyperion 

scribed  my  hero.  I  will  do  it  now,  as  he  stands 
looking  down  on  the  glorious  landscape;  — 
but  in  few  words.  Both  in  person  and  charac 
ter  he  resembled  Harold  the  Fair-Hair  of  Nor 
way,  who  is  described,  in  the  old  Icelandic 
Death-Song  of  Regner  Hairy-Breeches,  as  "the 
young  chief  so  proud  of  his  flowing  locks  ;  he 
who  spent  his  mornings  among  the  young 
maidens  ;  he  who  loved  to  converse  with  the 
handsome  widows."  This  was  an  amiable  weak 
ness  ;  and  it  sometimes  led  him  into  mischief. 
Imagination  was  the  ruling  power  of  his  mind. 
His  thoughts  were  twin-born ;  the  thought 
itself,  and  its  figurative  semblance  in  the  outer 
world.  Thus,  through  the  quiet,  still  waters 
of  his  soul  each  image  floated  double,  "  swan 
and  shadow." 

These  traits  of  character,  a  good  heart,  and 
a  poetic  imagination,  made  his  life  joyous  and 
the  world  beautiful ;  till  at  length  Death  cut 
down  the  sweet  blue  flower  that  bloomed  be 
side  him,  and  wounded  him  with  that  sharp 
sickle,  so  that  he  bowed  his  head,  a.nd  would 
fain  have  been  bound  up  in  the  same  sheaf 
with  the  sweet  blue  flower.  Then  the  world 
seemed  to  him  less  beautiful,  and  life  became 
earnest.  It  would  have  been  well,  if  he  could 


A  Romance  29 

have  forgotten  the  past ;  that  he  might  not  so 
mournfully  have  lived  in  it,  but  might  have 
enjoyed  and  improved  the  present.  But  this 
his  heart  refused  to  do ;  and  ever,  as  he  floated 
upon  the  great  sea  of  life,  he  looked  down 
through  the  transparent  waters,  checkered 
with  sunshine  and  shade,  into  the  vast  cham 
bers  of  the  mighty  deep  in  which  his  happier 
days  had  sunk,  and  wherein  they  were  lying 
still  visible,  like  golden  sands,  and  precious 
stones,  and  pearls  ;  and,  half  in  despair,  half 
in  hope,  he  grasped  downward  after  them 
again,  and  drew  back  his  hand,  filled  only 
with  sea-weed,  and  dripping  with  briny  tears  ! 
And  between  him  and  those  golden  sands  a 
radiant  image  floated,  like  the  spirit  in  Dante's 
Paradise,  singing,  "  Ave  Maria  !  "  and  while 
it  sang,  down-sinking,  and  slowly  vanishing 
away. 

In  all  things  he  acted  more  from  impulse 
than  from  fixed  principle  ;  as  is  the  case  with 
most  young  men.  Indeed,  his  principles  hard 
ly  had  time  to  take  root ;  for  he  pulled  them 
all  up,  every  now  and  then,  as  children  do  the 
flowers  they  have  planted,  —  to  see  if  they  are 
growing.  Yet  there  was  much  in  him  which 
was  good ;  for  underneath  the  flowers  and 


30  Hyperion 

greensward  of  poetry,  and  the  good  principles 
which  would  have  taken  root  had  he  given 
them  time,  there  lay  a  strong  and  healthy 
soil  of  common  sense,  —  freshened  by  living 
springs  of  feeling,  and  enriched  by  many 
faded  hopes,  that  had  fallen  upon  it  like  dead 
leaves. 


A  Romance  3  A 


CHAPTER     IV. 
The  Landlady's  Daughter 

"  A  LLEZ,  Fuchs !  allez,  lustig ! "  cried  the 
-^*-  impatient  postilion  to  his  horses,  in  ac 
cents  which,  like  the  wild  echo  of  the  Lurley 
Felsen,  came  first  from  one  side  of  the  river 
and  then  from  the  other,  —  that  is  to  say,  in 
words  alternately  French  and  German.  The 
truth  is,  he  was  tired  of  waiting  ;  and  when 
Flemming  had  at  length  resumed  his  seat  in 
the  post-chaise,  the  poor  horses  had  to  make 
up  the  time  he  had  lost  in  dreams  on  the 
mountain.  This  is  far  oftener  the  case  than 
most  people  imagine.  One  half  of  the  world 
must  sweat  and  groan,  that  the  other  half 
may  dream.  It  would  have  been  a  difficult 
task  for  the  traveller  or  his  postilion  to  per 
suade  the  horses  that  these  dreams  were  all 
for  their  good. 

The  next  stopping-place  was  the  little  tav 
ern  of  the  Star,  an  out-of-the-way  corner  in 
the  town  of  Salzig.  It  stands  on  the  banks 


3  2  Hyperion 

of  the  Rhine ;  and,  directly  in  front  of  it, 
sheer  from  the  water's  edge,  rise  the  moun 
tains  of  Liebenstein  and  Sternenfels,  each 
with  its  ruined  castle.  These  are  the  Brothers 
of  the  old  tradition,  still  gazing  at  each  other 
face  to  face  ;  and  beneath  them,  in  the  val 
ley,  stands  a  cloister,  —  meet  emblem  of  that 
orphan  child  they  both  so  passionately  loved. 
In  a  small  flat-bottomed  boat  did  the  land 
lady's  daughter  row  Flemming  "over  the 
Rhine-stream,  rapid  and  roaring  wide."  She 
was  a  beautiful  girl  of  sixteen  ;  with  black  hair, 
and  dark,  lovely  eyes,  and  a  face  that  had  a 
story  to  tell.  How  different  faces  are  in  this 
particular  !  Some  of  them  speak  not.  They 
are  books  in  which  not  a  line  is  written,  save 
perhaps  a  date.  Others  are  great  Family 
Bibles,  with  both  the  Old  and  the  New  Tes 
tament  written  in  them.  Others  are  Mother 
Goose  and  nursery  tales  ;  others,  bad  trage 
dies,  or  pickle-herring  farces  ;  and  others,  like 
that  of  the  landlady's  daughter  at  the  Star, 
sweet  love-anthologies,  and  songs  of  the  affec 
tions.  It  was  on  that  account  that  Flemming 
said  to  her,  as  they  glided  out  into  the  swift 
stream,  "  My  dear  child  !  do  you  know  the 
story  of  the  Liebenstein  ?  " 


A  Romance  33 

"  The    story  of  the   Liebenstein,"   she   an 
swered,  "  I  knew  by  heart  when  I  was  a  little          S 
child."  * 

And  here  her  large,  dark,  passionate  eyes 
looked  into  Flemming's,  and  he  doubted  not 
that  she  had  learned  the  story  far  too  soon 
and  far  too  well.  That  story  he  longed  to 
hear,  as  if  it  were  unknown  to  him  ;  for  he 
knew  that  the  girl,  who  had  got  it  by  heart 
.  when  a  child,  would  tell  it  as  it  should  be  told. 
So  he  begged  her  to  repeat  the  story,  which 
she  was  but  too  glad  to  do  ;  for  she  loved  and 
believed  it,  as  if  it  had  all  been  written  in  the 
Bible.  But  before  she  began,  she  rested  a 
TTfoment  on  her  oars,  and,  taking  the  crucifix 
which  hung  suspended  from  her  neck,  kissed 
it,  and  then  let  it  sink  down  into  her  bosom, 
as  if  it  were  an  anchor  she  was  dropping  into 
her  heart.  Meanwhile  her  moist,  dark  eyes 
were  turned  to  heaven.  Perhaps  her  soul  was 
walking  with  the  souls  of  Cunizza,  and  Rahab, 
and  Mary  Magdalen.  Or  perhaps  she  was 
thinking  of  that  nun,  of  whom  St.  Gregory 
says,  in  his  Dialogues,  that,  having  gieedily 
eaten  a  lettuce  in  a  garden  without  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  she  found  herself  soon 
alter  possessed  with  a  devil. 


34  Hyperion 

The  probability,  however,  is,  that  she  was 
looking  at  the  ruined  castles  only,  and  not  to 
heaven,  for  she  soon  began  her  story,  and  told 
Flemming  how,  "  a  great,  great  many  years  ago, 
an  old  man  lived  in  the  Lieberistein  with  his 
two  sons  ;  and  how  both  the  young  men  loved 
the  Lady  Geraldine,  an  orphan,  under  their 
father's  care  ;  and  how  the  elder  brother  went 
away  in  despair,  and  the  younger  was  betrothed 
to  the  Lady  Geraldine  ;  and  how  they  were  as. 
happy  as  Aschenputtel  and  the  Prince.  And 
then  the  holy  Saint  Bernard  came  and  carried 
away  all  the  young  men  to  the  war,  just  as 
Napoleon  did  afterwards  ;  and  the  young  lord 
went  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  Lady  Geral 
dine  sat  in  her  tower  and  wept,  and  waited  for 
her  lover's  return,  while  the  old  father  built 
the  Sternenfels  for  them  to  live  in  when  they 
were  married.  And  when  it  was  finished,  the 
old  man  died  ;  and  the  elder  brother  came 
back  and  lived  in  the  Liebenstein,  and  took 
care  of  the  gentle  lady.  Erelong  there  came 
news  from  the  Holy  Land  that  the  war  was 
over  ;  and  the  heart  of  the  gentle  lady  beat 
/ith  joy,  till  she  heard  that  her  faithless  lovei 
was  coming  back  with  a  Greek  wife,  —  the 
wicked  man  !  —  and  then  she  went  into  a  con- 


4.   Romance  35 

vent  and  became  a  holy  nun.  So  the  young 
lord  of  Sternenfels  came  home,  and  lived  in 
his  castle  in  great  splendor  with  the  Greek 
woman,  who  was  a  wicked  woman,  and  did 
what  she  ought  not  to  do.  But  the  elder 
brother  was  angry  for  the  wrong  done  the 
gentle  lady,  and  challenged  the  lord  of  Ster 
nenfels  to  single  combat.  And  while  they 
were  fighting  with  their  great  swords  in  the 
valley  of  Bornhofen  behind  the  castle,  the 
convent  bells  began  to  ring,  and  the  Lady 
Geraldine  came  forth  with  a  train  of  nuns 
all  dressed  in  white,  and  made  the  brothers 
friends  again,  and  told  them  she  was  the  bride 
of  Heaven,  and  happier  in  her  convent  than 
she  could  have  been  in  the  Liebenstein  or  the 
Sternenfels.  And  when  the  brothers  returned, 
they  found  that  the  false  Greek  wife  had  gone 
away  with  another  knight.  So  they  lived  to 
gether  in  peace,  and  were  never  married.  And 
when  they  died " 

"  Lisbeth  !  Lisbeth  !  "  cried  a  sharp  voice 
from  the  shore,  "  Lisbeth  !  where  are  you  tak 
ing  the  gentleman  ?  " 

This  recalled  the  poor  girl  to  her  senses  ; 
and  she  saw  how  fast  they  were  floating  down 
stream.  For,  in  telling  the  story,  she  had  for- 


36  Hyperion 

gotten  everything  else,  and  the  swift  current 
had  swept  them  down  to  the  tall  walnut-trees 
of  Kamp.  They  landed  in  front  of  the  Capu 
chin  monastery.  Lisbeth  led  the  way  through 
the  little  village,  and,  turning  to  the  right, 
pointed  up  the  romantic,  lonely  valley  which 
leads  to  the  Liebenstein,  and  even  offered 
to  go  with  him.  But  Flemming  patted  her 
cheek,  and  shook  his  head.  He  went  up  the 
valley  alone. 


A  Romance  37 


CHAPTER    V. 

Jean  Paul,  the  Only-One 

IT  was  already  night  when  Flemming  crossed 
the  Roman  bridge  over  the  Nahe,  and  en 
tered  the  town  of  Bingen.  He  stopped  at 
the  White  Horse  ;  and,  before  going  to  bed, 
looked  out  into  the  dim  starlight  from  his 
window  towards  the  Rhine,  and  his  heart 
leaped  within  him  to  behold  the  bold  outline 
of  the  neighboring  hills  crested  with  Gothic 
ruins;  —  which  in  the  morning  proved  to  be 
only  a  high  slated  roof,  with  fantastic  chim 
neys. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  frosty  ;  and 
the  river  tinged  with  gay  colors  by  the  rising 
sun.  A  soft,  thin  vapor  floated  in  the  air. 
In  the  sunbeams  flashed  the  hoar-frost  like 
silver  stars  ;  and  through  a  long  avenue  of 
trees,  whose  dripping  branches  bent  and  scat 
tered  pearls  before  him  Paul  Flemming  jour 
neyed  on  in  triumph. 

The  man  in  the  play  who  wished  for  f*  some 


38  Hyperion 

forty  pounds  of  lovely  beef,  placed  in  a  Medi 
terranean  Sea  of  brewis,"  might  have  seen 
his  ample  desires  almost  realized  at  the  table 
d'hote  of  the  Rheinischen  Hof,  in  Mayence, 
where  Flemming  dined  that  day.  At  the 
head  of  the  table  sat  a  gentleman  with  a 
smooth,  broad  forehead,  and  large,  intelligent 
eyes.  He  was  from  Baireuth  in  Franconia  -, 
and  talked  about  poetry  and  Jean  Paul  to 
a  pale,  romantic-looking  lady  on  his  right. 
There  was  music  all  dinner-time,  at  the  other- 
end  of  the  hall,  —  a  harp  and  a  horn  and  a 
voice,  —  so  that  a  great  part  of  the  fat  gentle 
man's  conversation  with  the  pale  lady  was  lost 
to  Flemming,  who  sat  opposite  to  her,  and 
could  look  right  into  her  large,  melancholy 
eyes.  But  what  he  heard  so  much  interested 
him,  —  indeed,  the  very  name  of  the  beloved 
Jean  Paul  would  have  been  enough  for  this, — 
that  he  ventured  to  join  in  the  conversation, 
and  asked  the  German  if  he  had  known  the 
poet  personally. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  well,"  replied  the  stran 
ger.  "  I  am  a  native  of  Baireuth,  where  he 
passed  the  best  years  of  his  life.  In  my  mind, 
the  man  and  the  author  are  closely  united.  I 
never  read  a  page  of  his  writings  without  hear- 


A   Romance  39 

ing  his  voice,  and  seeing  his  form  before  me. 
There  he  sits,  with  his  majestic,  mountain 
ous  forehead,  his  mild  blue  eyes,  and  finely 
cut  nose  and  mouth  ;  his  massive  frame  clad 
loosely  and  carelessly  in  an  old  green  frock, 
from  the  pockets  of  which  the  corners  of  books 
project,  and  perhaps  the  end  of  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  the  nose  of  a  bottle  ;  a  straw  hat,  lined 
with  green,  lying  near  him  ;  a  huge  walking- 
stick  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet  a  white  poo 
dle,  with  pink  eyes,  and  a  string  round  his 
neck.  You  would  sooner  have  taken  him  for 
a  master-carpenter  than  for  a  poet.  Is  he  a 
favorite  author  of  yours  ?  "  Flemming  an 
swered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  But  a  foreigner  must  find  it  exceedingly 
difficult  to  understand  him,"  said  the  gentle 
man.  "  It  is  by  no  means  an  easy  task  for 
us  Germans." 

"  I  have  always  observed,"  replied  Flem 
ming,  "  that  the  true  understanding  and  ap 
preciation  of  a  poet  depend  more  upon  indi 
vidual  than  upon  national  character.  If  there 
be  a  sympathy  between  the  minds  of  writer 
and  reader,  the  bounds  and  barriers  of  a  for 
eign  tongue  are  soon  overleaped.  If  you  once 
understand  an  author's  character,  the  compre 
hension  of  his  writings  becomes  easy." 


40  fiyperion 

"  Very  true,"  replied  the  German  ;  "  and  the 
character  of  Richter  is  too  marked  to  be  easily 
misunderstood.  Its  prominent  traits  are  ten 
derness  and  manliness,  —  qualities  which  are 
seldom  found  united  in  so  high  a  degree  as 
in  him.  Over  all  he  sees,  over  all  he  writes, 
are  spread  the  sunbeams  of  a  cheerful  spirit, — 
the  light  of  inexhaustible  human  love.  Every 
sound  of  human  joy  and  of  human  sorrow 
finds  a  deep-resounding  echo  in  his  bosom. 
In  every  man,  he  loves  his  humanity  only, 
not  his  superiority.  The  avowed  object  of  all 
his  literary  labors  was  to  raise  up  again  the 
down-sunken  faith  in  God,  Virtue,  and  Im 
mortality  ;  and,  in  an  egotistical,  revolutionary 
age,  to  warm  again  our  human  sympathies, 
which  have  now  grown  cold.  And  not  less 
boundless  is  his  love  for  Nature,  —  for  this 
outward,  beautiful  world.  He  embraces  it  all 
in  his  arms." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Flemming,  almost  taking 
the  words  out  of  the  stranger's  mouth,  "  for 
in  his  mind  all  things  become  idealized.  He 
seems  to  describe  himself  when  he  describes 
the  hero  of  his  Titan,  as  a  child,  rocking  in 
a  high  wind  upon  the  branches  of  a  full-blos 
somed  apple-tree,  and  as  its  summit,  blown 


A  Romance  ,  41 

abroad  by  the  wind,  now  sunk  him  in  deep 
green,  and  now  tossed  him  aloft  in  deep  blue 
and  glancing  sunshine,  —  in  his  imagination 
stood  that  tree  gigantic  ;  —  it  grew  alone  in 
the  universe,  as  if  it  were  the  tree  of  eternal 
life  ;  its  roots  struck  down  into  the  abyss  ;  the 
white  and  red  clouds  hung  as  blossoms  upon 
it  ;  the  moon  as  fruit ;  the  little  stars  sparkled 
like  dew,  and  Albano  reposed  in  its  measure 
less  summit  ;  and  a  storm  swayed  the  summit 
out  of  Day  into  Night,  and  out  of  Night  into 
Day." 

"  Yet  the  spirit  of  love,"  interrupted  the 
Franconian,  "was  not  weakness,  but  strength. 
It  was  united  in  him  with  great  manliness. 
The  sword  of  his  spirit  had  been  forged  and 
beaten  by  poverty.  Its  temper  had  been  tried 
by  a  thirty  years'  war.  It  was  not  broken, 
not  even  blunted,  but  rather  strengthened  and 
sharpened,  by  the  blows  it  gave  and  received. 
And,  possessing  this  noble  spirit  of  humanity, 
endurance,  and  self-denial,  he  made  literature 
his  profession  ;  as  if  he  had  been  divinely  com 
missioned  to  write.  He  seems  to  have  cared 
for  nothing  else,  to  have  thought  of  nothing 
else,  than  living  quietly  and  making  books. 
He  says  that  he  felt  it  his  duty,  not  to  enjoy, 


42  Hyperion 

nor  to  acquire,  but  to  write  ;  and  boasted  that 
he  had  made  as  many  books  as  he  had  lived 
years." 

"And  what  do  you   Germans  consider  the 
prominent  characteristics  of  his  genius  ? " 

"Most  undoubtedly,  his  wild  imagination 
and  his  playfulness.  He  throws  over  all 
things  a  strange  and  magic  coloring.  You 
are  startled  at  the  boldness  and  beauty  of 
his  figures  and  illustrations,  which  are  scat 
tered  everywhere  with  a  reckless  prodigality  ; 
multitudinous,  like  the  blossoms  of  early  sum 
mer,  and  as  fragrant  and  beautiful.  With  a 
thousand  extravagances  are  mingled  ten  thou 
sand  beauties  of  thought  and  expression,  which 
kindle  the  reader's  imagination,  and  lead  it 
onward  in  a  bold  flight,  through  the  glow 
of  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  the  dewy  coldness 
and  starlight  of  summer  nights.  He  is  diffi 
cult  to  understand,  —  intricate,  —  strange,  — 
drawing  his  illustrations  from  every  by-corner 
of  science,  art,  and  nature,  —  a  comet  among 
the  bright  stars  of  German  literature.  When 
you  read  his  works,  it  is  as  if  you  were  climb 
ing  a  high  mountain,  in  merry  company,  to 
see  the  sun  rise.  At  times  you  are  cnvci 
vn  mist,  —  the  morning  wind  >\\xvps  bv  you 


A  Romance  43 

with  a  shout,  —  you  hear  the  far-off  mutter 
ing  thunders.  Wide  beneath  you  spreads  the 
landscape,  —  field,  meadow,  town,  and  winding 
river.  The  ringing  of  distant  church-bells, 
or  the  sound  of  solemn  village  clock,  reaches 
you ;  —  then  arises  the  sweet  and  manifold 
fragrance  of  flowers,  —  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
—  the  vapors  roll  away,  —  up  comes  the  glori 
ous  sun,  —  you  revel  like  a  lark  in  the  sun 
shine  and  bright  blue  heaven,  and  all  is  a 
delirious  dream  of  soul  and  sense,  —  when 
suddenly  a  friend  at  your  elbow  laughs  aloud, 
and  offers  you  a  piece  of  Bologna  sausage. 
As  in  real  life,  so  in  his  writings :  the  serious 
and  the  comic,  the  sublime  and  the  grotesque, 
the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous,  are  mingled 
together.  At  times  he  is  sententious,  ener 
getic,  simple  ;  then,  again,  obscure  and  diffuse. 
His  thoughts  are  like  mummies  embalmed 
in  spices,  and  wrapped  about  with  curious 
envelopments  ;  but  within  these  the  thoughts 
themselves  are  kings.  At  times  glad,  beauti 
ful  images,  airy  forms,  move  by  you,  grace 
ful,  harmonious  ;  —  at  times  the  glaring,  wild- 
looking  fancies,  chained  together  by  hyphens, 
brackets,  and  dashes,  brave  and  base,  high  and 
low,  all  in  their  motley  dresses,  go  sweeping 


44  Hyperion 

down  the  dusty  page,  like  the  galley-slaves 
that  sweep  the  streets  of  Rome,  where  you 
may  chance  to  see  the  nobleman  and  the 
peasant  manacled  together." 

Flemming  smiled  at  the  German's  warmth, 
to  which  the  presence  of  the  lady  and  the 
Laubenheimer  wine  seemed  each  to  have 
contributed  something,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  Better  an  outlaw  than  not  free  !  —  These 
are  his  own  words.  And  thus  he  changes 
at  his  will.  Like  the  God  Thor,  of  the  old 
Northern  mythology,  he  now  holds  forth  the 
seven  stars  in  the  bright  heaven  above  us, 
and  now  hides  himself  in  clouds,  and  pounds 
away  with  his  great  hammer." 

"  And  yet  this  is  not  affectation  in  him," 
rejoined  the  German.  "It  is  his  nature, — 
it  is  Jean  Paul.  And  the  figures  and  orna 
ments  of  his  style,  wild,  fantastic,  and  ofttimes 
startling,  like  those  in  Gothic  cathedrals, 
are  not  merely  what  they  seem,  but  massive 
coignes  and  buttresses,  which  support  the 
fabric.  Remove  them,  and  the  roof  and  walls 
fall  in.  And  through  these  gargoyles,  these 
wild  faces,  these  images  of  beasts  and  men 
carved  upon  spouts  and  gutters,  flow  out,  like 
gathered  rain,  the  bright,  abundant  thoughts 


A  Romance  45 

that  have  fallen  from  heaven.  And  all  he 
does  is  done  with  a  kind  of  serious  playful 
ness.  He  is  a  sea-monster,  disporting  him 
self  on  the  broad  ocean ;  his  very  sport  is 
earnest  ;  there  is  something  majestic  and  seri 
ous  about  it.  In  everything  there  is  strength, 
a  rough  good-nature,  all  sunshine  overhead, 
and  underneath  the  heavy  moaning  of  the 
sea.  Well  may  he  be  called  '  Jean  Paul,  the 
Only-One.' " 

With  such  discourse  the  hour  of  dinner 
passed  ;  and  after  dinner  Flemming  went  to 
the  cathedral.  They  were  singing  vespers. 
A  beadle,  dressed  in  blue,  with  a  cocked. hat, 
and  a  crimson  sash  and  collar,  was  strutting, 
like  a  turkey,  along  the  aisles.  This  impor 
tant  gentleman  conducted  Flemming  through 
the  church,  and  showed  him  the  choir,  with 
its  heavy-sculptured  stalls  of  oak,  and  the 
beautiful  figures  in  brown  stone  over  the  bish 
ops'  tombs.  He  then  led  him,  by  a  side-door, 
into  the  old  and  ruined  cloisters  of  St.  Willigis. 
Through  the  low  Gothic  arches  the  sunshine 
streamed  upon  the  pavement  of  tombstones, 
whose  images  and  inscriptions  are  mostly 
effaced  by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations. 
There  stands  the  tomb  of  Frauenlob,  the  Min- 


46  Hyperion 

nesinger.  His  face  is  sculptured  on  an  en 
tablature  in  the  wall ;  a  fine,  strongly-marked, 
and  serious  countenance.  Below  it  is  a  bas- 
relief,  representing  the  poet's  funeral.  He  is 
carried  to  his  grave  by  ladies,  whose  praise 
he  sang,  and  thereby  won  the  name  of  Frau- 
enlob. 

"  This,  then,"  said  Flemming,  "  is  the  grave, 
not  of  Praise-God  Bare-bones,  but  of  Praise- 
the-Ladies  Meissen,  who  wrote  songs  'some 
what  of  lust,  and  somewhat  of  love.'  But 
where  sleeps  the  dust  of  his  rival  and  foe, 
sweet  Master  Bartholomew  Rainbow  ?  " 

He  meant  this  for  an  aside  ;  but  the  tur 
key-cock  picked  it  up,  and  answered :  — 

"  I  do  not  know.  He  did  not  belong  to 
this  parish." 

I  will  not  prolong  this  journey,  for  I  am 
weary  and  way-worn,  and  would  fain  be  at 
Heidelberg  with  my  readers  and  my  hero.  It 
was  already  night  when  he  reached  the  Man- 
heim  gate,  and  drove  down  the  long  Haupt- 
strasse  so  slowly,  that  it  seemed  to  him  end 
less.  The  shops  were  lighted  on  each  side 
of  the  street,  and  he  saw  faces  at  the  windows 
here  and  there,  and  figures  passing  in  the 
lamplight,  visible  for  a  moment,  and  then 


A  Romance  47 

swallowed  up  in  the  darkness.  The  thoughts 
that  filled  his  mind  were  strange  ;  as  are  al 
ways  the  thoughts  of  a  traveller  who  enters 
for  the  first  time  a  strange  city.  This  little 
world  had  been  going  on  for  centuries  before 
he  came  ;  and  would  go  on  for  centuries  after 
he  was  gone.  Of  all  the  thousands  who  inhab 
ited  it,  he  knew  nothing  ;  and  what  knew  they, 
or  thought,  of  the  stranger,  who,  in  that  close 
post-chaise,  weary  with  travel,  and  chilled  by 
the  evening  wind,  was  slowly  rumbling  over 
the  paved  street  ?  Truly,  this  world  can  go 
on  without  us,  if  we  would  but  think  so.  If  it 
had  been  a  hearse  instead  of  a  post-chaise,  it 
would  have  been  all  the  same  to  the  people 
of  Heidelberg,  —  though  by  no  means  the 
same  to  Paul  Flemming. 

But  at  the  farther  end  of  the  city,  near  the 
Castle  and  the  Carls-Thor,  one  warm  heart 
was  waiting  to  receive  him  ;  and  this  was  the 
German  heart  of  his  friend,  the  Baron  of  Ho- 
henfels,  with  whom  he  was  to  pass  the  winter 
in  Heidelberg.  No  sooner  had  the  carriage 
stopped  at  the  iron-grated  gate,  and  the  postil 
ion  blown  his  horn,  to  announce  the  arrival  of 
a  traveller,  than  the  Baron  was  seen  among 
the  servants  at  the  door  ;  and,  a  few  moments 


48  Hyperion 

afterwards,  the  two  long-absent  friends  were 
in  each  other's  arms,  and  Flemming  received 
a  kiss  upon  each  cheek,  and  another  on  the 
mouth,  as  a  pledge  and  seal  of  the  German's 
friendship.  They  held  each  other  long  by  the 
hand,  and  looked  into  each  other's  face,  and 
saw  themselves  in  each  other's  eyes,  both  liter 
ally  and  figuratively ;  literally,  inasmuch  as 
the  images  were  there  ;  and  figuratively,  inas 
much  as  each  was  imagining  what  the  other 
thought  of  him,  after  the  lapse  of  some  years. 
In  friendly  hopes  and  questionings  and  an 
swers,  the  evening  glided  away  at  the  supper- 
table,  where  many  more  things  were  discussed 
than  the  roasted  hare  and  the  Johannisberger  ; 
and  they  sat  late  into  the  night,  conversing  of 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  and  delights  which 
fill  the  hearts  of  young  men  who  have  already 
enjoyed  and  suffered,  and  hoped  and  been  dis 
appointed. 


A    Romance.      .  •  49 


CHAPTER   VI. 

Heidelberg  and  the  Baron. 

HIGH  and  hoar  on  the  forehead  of  the 
Jettenbuhl  stands  the  Castle  of  Heidel 
berg.  Behind  it  rise  the  oak-crested  hills  of 
the  Geissberg  and  the  Kaiserstuhl :  and  in 
front,  from  the  wide  terrace  of  masonry,  you 
can  almost  throw  a  stone  upon  the  roofs  of  the 
town,  so  close  do  they  lie  beneath.  Above 
this  terrace  rises  the  broad  front  of  the  chapel 
of  Saint  Udalrich.  On  the  left  stands  the 
slender  octagon  tower  of  the  horologe ;  and 
on  the  right,  a  huge  round  tower,  battered 
and  shattered  by  the  mace  of  war,  shores  up 
with  its  broad  shoulders  the  beautiful  palace 
and  garden-terrace  of  Elizabeth,  wife  of  the 
Count  Palatine  Frederick.  In  the  rear  are 
older  palaces  and  towers,  forming  a  vast,  irreg 
ular  quadrangle;  —  Rodolph's  ancient  castle, 
with  its  Gothic  gloriette  and  fantastic  gables  ; 
the  Giant's  Tower,  guarding  the  drawbridge 
the  moat ;  the  Rent  Tcwer,  with  the 


5O  Hyperion 

linden-trees  growing  on  its  summit ;  and  the 
magnificent  Rittersaal  of  Otho-Henry,  Count 
Palatine  of  the  Rhine  and  Grand  Seneschal 
of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  From  the  gar 
dens  behind  the  castle,  you  pass  under  the 
archway  of  the  Giant's  Tower  into  the  great 
courtyard.  The  diverse  architecture  of  dif 
ferent  ages  strikes  the  eye,  and  curious  sculp 
tures.  In  niches  on  the  wall  of  Saint  Udal- 
rich's  chapel  stand  rows  of  knights  in  armor, 
broken  and  dismembered  ;  and  on  the  front 
of  Otho's  Rittersaal,  the  heroes  of  Jewish  his 
tory  and  classic  fable.  You  enter  the  open 
and  desolate  chambers  of  the  ruin  ;  and  on 
every  side  are  medallions  and  family  arms ; 
the  Globe  of  the  Empire  and  the  Golden 
Fleece,  or  the  Eagle  of  the  Caesars,  resting 
on  the  escutcheons  of  Bavaria  and  the  Pala 
tinate.  Over  the  windows  and  doorways  and 
chimney-pieces  are  sculptures  and  mouldings 
of  exquisite  workmanship  ;  and  the  eye  is 
bewildered  by  the  profusion  of  caryatides,  and 
arabesques,  and  rosettes,  and  fan-like  flutings, 
and  garlands  of  fruits  and  flowers  and  acorns, 
and  bullocks'  heads  with  draperies  of  foliage, 
and  muzzles  of  lions,  holding  rings  in  their 
teeth.  The  cunning  hand  of  Art  was  busy 


A  Romance  51 

for  six  centuries  in  raising  and  adorning  these 
walls ;  the  mailed  hands  of  Time  and  War 
have  defaced  and  overthrown  them  in  less 
than  two.  Next  to  the  Alhambra  of  Granada, 
the  Castle  of  Heidelberg  is  the  most  magnifi 
cent  ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  the  valley  below  flows  the  rushing  stream 
of  the  Neckar.  Close  from  its  margin,  on  the 
opposite  side,  rises  the  Mountain  of  All-Saints, 
crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  convent ;  and  up 
the  valley  stretches  the  mountain-curtain  of 
the  Odenwald.  So  close  and  many  are  the 
hills  which  eastward  shut  the  valley  in,  that 
the  river  seems  a  lake.  But  westward  it  opens 
upon  the  broad  plain  of  the  Rhine,  like  the 
mouth  of  a  trumpet  ;  and  like  the  blast  of  a 
trumpet  is  at  times  the  wintry  wind  through 
this  narrow  mountain-pass.  The  blue  Alsa 
tian  hills  rise  beyond  ;  and  on  a  platform  or 
strip  of  level  land,  between  the  Neckar  and 
the  mountains,  right  under  the  castle,  stands 
the  town  of  Heidelberg  ;  as  the  old  song  says, 
u  a  pleasant  town,  when  it  has  done  raining." 

Something  of  this  did  Paul  Flemming  be^ 
hold,  when  he  rose  the  next  morning  and 
looked  from  his  window.  It  was  a  warm, 
vapory  morning,  and  a  struggle  was  going 


5  2  Hyperion 

on  between  the  mist  and  the  rising  sun.  The 
sun  had  taken  the  hill-tops,  but  the  mist  still 
kept  possession  of  the  valley  and  the  town. 
The  steeple  of  the  great  church  rose  through 
a  dense  mass  of  snow-white  clouds ;  and  on 
the  hills  the  dim  vapors  were  rolling  across 
the  windows  of  the  ruined  castle,  like  the  fiery 
smoke  of  a  fierce  conflagration.  It  seemed 
to  him  an  image  of  the  rising  of  the  sun  ot 
Truth  on  a  benighted  world  ;  its  light  streamed 
through  the  ruins  of  centuries  ;  and,  down  in 
the  Valley  of  Time,  the  cross  on  the  Christian 
church  caught  its  rays,  though  the  priests  were 
singing  in  mist  and  darkness  below. 

In  the  warm  breakfast-room  he  found  the 
Baron  waiting  for  him.  He  was  lying  upon 
a  sofa,  in  morning  gown  and  purple-velvet 
slippers,  both  with  flowers  upon  them.  He 
had  a  guitar  in  his  hand,  and  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  at  the  same  time  smoking,  playing,  and 
humming  his  favorite  song  from  Goethe  :  — 

"  The  water  rushed,  the  water  swelled, 
A  fisher  sat  thereby." 

Flemming  could  hardly  refrain  from  laugh- 
lug  at  the  sight  of  his  friend  ;  and  told  him 
it  reminded  him  of  a  street-musician  he  once 


A  Romance  53 

saw  in  Aix-la-Chapelle,  who  was  playing  upon 
six  instruments  at  once  ;  having  a  helmet  with 
bells  on  his  head,  a  Pan's-reed  in  his  cravat,  a 
violin  in  his  hand,  a  triangle  on  his  knee,  cym 
bals  on  his  heels,  and  on  his  back  a  bass-drum, 
which  he  played  with  his  elbows.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  Baron  of  Hohenfels  was  rather  a 
miscellaneous  youth,  rather  a  universal  genius. 
He  pursued  all  things  with  eagerness,  but  for  a 
short  time  only  :  music,  poetry,  painting,  pleas 
ure,  even  the  study  of  the  Pandects.  His  feel 
ings  were  keenly  alive  to  the  enjoyment  of  life. 
His  great  defect  was,  that  he  was  too  much 
in  love  with  human  nature.  But  by  the  power 
of  imagination,  in  him,  the  bearded  goat  was 
changed  to  a  bright  Capricornus  ;  —  no  longer 
an  animal  on  earth,  but  a  constellation  in 
heaven.  An  easy  and  indolent  disposition 
made  him  gentle  and  childlike  in  his  man 
ners  ;  and,  in  short,  the  beauty  of  his  charac 
ter,  like  that  of  the  precious  opal,  was  owing 
to  a  defect  in  its  organization.  His  person 
was  tall  and  slightly  built  ;  his  hair  light ;  and 
his  eyes  blue,  and  as  beautiful  as  those  of  a 
girl.  In  the  tones  of  his  voice  there  was 
something  indescribably  gentle  and  winning  ; 
and  he  spoke  the  German  language  with  the 


54  Hyperion 

soft,  musical  accent  of  his  native  province  of 
Kurland.  In  his  manners,  if  he  had  not  "An- 
tmoiis'  easy- sway,"  he  had  at  least  an  easy 
sway  of  his  own.  Such,  in  few  words,  was 
the  friend  of  Flcmming. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Heidelberg  and 
the  old  castle  ? "  said  he,  as  they  seated  them 
selves  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Last  night  the  town  seemed  very  long  to 
me,"  replied  Flemming  ;  "  and  as  to  the  castle, 
I  have  as  yet  had  but  a  glimpse  of  it  through 
the  mist.  They  tell  me  there  is  nothing  finer 
in  its  way  than  this  magnificent  ruin  ;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  I  shall  find  it  so.  Only  I  wish 
the  stone  were  gray,  and  not  red.  But,  red  or 
gray,  I  foresee  that  I  shall  waste  many  a  long 
hour  in  its  desolate  halls.  Pray,  does  anybody 
live  there  now-a-days  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  answered  the  Baron,  "  but  the 
man  who  shows  the  Heidelberg  Tun,  and  a 
Frenchman,  who  has  been  there  sketching 
ever  since  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ten. 
He  has,  moreover,  written  a  super-magnificent 
description  of  the  ruin,  in  which  he  says,  that 
during  the  day  only  birds  of  prey  disturb  it 
with  their  piercing  cries,  and  at  night,  screech- 
owls,  and  other  fallow  deer.  You  must  biry 
his  book  and  his  sketches." 


A  Romance 


55 


"Yes,  the  quotation  and  the  tone  of  your 
voice  will  certainly  persuade  me  so  to  do." 

"  Take  his  or  none,  ray  friend,  for  you  will 
find  no  others.  And  seriously,  his  sketches 
are  very  good.  There  is  one  on  the  wall 
there,  which  is  beautiful,  save  and  except  that 
straddle-bug  figure  among  the  bushes  in  the 
corner." 

"  But  is  there  no  ghost,  no  haunted  cham 
ber  in  the  old  castle  ? "  asked  Flemming,  after 
casting  a  hasty  glance  at  the  picture. 

"  O,  certainly,"  replied  the  Baron;  "there 
are  two.  There  is  the  ghost  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  Ruprecht's  Tower,  and  the  Devil 
in  the  Dungeon." 

"  Ha  !  that  is  grand  !  "  exclaimed  Flemming, 
with  evident  delight.  "  Tell  me  the  whole 
story,  quickly !  I  am  as  curious  as  a  child." 

u  It  is  a  tale  of  the  times  of  Louis  le  De- 
bonnaire,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  smile  ;  "  a 
mouldy  tradition  of  a  credulous  age.  His 
brother  Frederick  lived  here  in  the  castle 
with  him,  and  had  a  flirtation  with  Leonore 
von  Luzelstein,  a  lady  of  the  court,  whom 
he  afterwards  despised,  and  was  consequently 
most  cordially  hated  by  her.  From  political 
motives,  he  was  equally  hateful  to  certain 


56  Hyperion 

petty  German  tyrants,  who,  in  order  to  effect 
his  ruin,  accused  him  of  heresy.  But  his 
brother  Louis  would  not  deliver  him  up  to 
their  fury,  and  they  resolved  to  effect  by 
stratagem  what  they  could  not  by  intrigue. 
Accordingly,  Leonore  von  Luzelstein,  dis 
guised  as  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  the  father 
confessor  of  the  Elector,  in  the  costume  of 
Satan,  made  their  appearance  in  the  Elec 
tor's  bedchamber  at  midnight,  and  frightened 
him  so  horribly,  that  he  consented  to  deliver 
up  his  brother  into  the  hands  of  two  Black 
Knights,  who  pretended  to  be  ambassadors 
from  the  Vehm-Gericht.  They  proceeded  to 
gether  to  Frederick's  chamber  ;  where,  luckily, 
old  Gemmingen,  a  brave  soldier,  kept  guard 
behind  the  arras.  The  monk  went  foremost 
in  his  Satanic  garb  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he 
set  foot  in  the  prince's  bedchamber,  than  the 
brave  Gemmingen  drew  his  sword,  and  said 
quaintly,  '  Die,  wretch  ! '  and  so  he  died.  The 
rest  took  to  their  heels,  and  were  heard  of  no 
more.  And  now  the  souls  of  Leonore  and  the 
monk  haunt  the  scene  of  their  midnight  crime. 
You  will  find  the  story  in  the  Frenchman's 
book,  worked  up  with  a  kind  of  red-morocco 
and  burnt-cork  sublimity,  and  great  melodra- 


A   Romance  57 

matic  clanking  of  chains,  and  hooting  of  owls, 
and  other  fallow  deer  !  " 

"  After  breakfast,"  said  Flemming,  "  we  will 
go  up  to  the  castle.  I  must  get  acquainted 
with  this  mirror  of  owls,  this  modern  Till 
Eulenspiegel.  See  what  a  glorious  morning 
we  have !  It  is  truly  a  wondrous  winter ! 
what  summer  sunshine  !  what  soft  Venetian 
fogs !  How  the  wanton,  treacherous  air  co 
quets  with  the  old  graybeard  trees !  Such 
weather  makes  the  grass  and  our  beards  grow 
apace  !  But  we  have  an  old  saying  in  Eng 
lish,  that  winter  never  rots  in  the  sky.  So 
he  will  come  down  at  last  in  his  old-fashioned 
mealy  coat.  We  shall  have  snow  in  spring  ; 
and  the  blossoms  will  be  ail  snow-flakes.  And 
afterwards  a  summer,  which  will  be  110  sum 
mer,  but,  as  Jean  Paul  says,  only  a  winter 
painted  green.  Is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  Unless  I  am  much  deceived  in  the  climate 
of  Heidelberg,"  replied  the  Baron,  "we  shall 
not  have  to  wait  long  for  snow.  We  have 
sudden  changes  here  ;  and  I  should  not  mar 
vel  much  if  it  snowed  before  night." 

"The  greater  reason   for  making  good  use 
of  the  morning  sunshine,  then.     Let  us  hasten 
to  the  castle,  after  which  my  heart  yearns." 
3* 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VII. 
Lives  of  Scholars 

nnHE  forebodings  of  the  Baron  proved  true. 

-*-  In  the  afternoon  the  -weather  changed. 
The  western  wind  began  to  blow,  and  drew  a 
cloud-veil  over  the  face  of  Heaven,  as  a  breath 
does  over  the  human  face  in  a  mirror.  Soon 
the  snow  began  to  fall.  Athwart  the  distant 
landscape  it  swept  like  a  white  mist.  The 
storm-wind  came  from  the  Alsatian  hills,  and 
struck  the  dense  clouds  aslant  through  the 
air.  And  ever  faster  fell  the  snow,  a  roaring 
torrent  from  those  mountainous  clouds.  The 
setting  sun  glared  wildly  from  the  summit 
of  the  hills,  and  sank  like  a  burning  ship  at 
sea,  wrecked  in  the  tempest.  Thus  the  even 
ing  set  in  ;  and  winter  stood  at  the  gate  wag 
ging  his  white  and  shaggy  beard,  like  an  old 
harper  chanting  an  old  rhyme  :  —  "  How  cold 
it  is  !  how  cold  it  is  !  " 

"  I  like  such  a  storm  as  this,"  said  Flem- 
ming,  who  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out 


A   Romance  59 

into  the  tempest  and  the  gathering  darkness. 
"  The  silent  falling  of  snow  is  to  me  one  of 
the  most  solemn  things  in  nature.  The  fall 
of  autumnal  leaves  does  not  so  much  affect 
me.  But  the  driving  storm  is  grand.  It 
startles  me;  it  awakens  me.  It  is  wild  and 
woful,  like  my  own  soul.  I  cannot  help  think 
ing  of  the  sea  ;  how  the  waves  run  and  toss 
their  arms  about,  —  and  the  wind  plays  on 
those  great  sonorous  harps,  the  shrouds  and 
masts  of  ships.  Winter  is  here  in  earnest ! 
How  the  old  churl  whistles  and  threshes  the 
snow !  Sleet  and  rain  are  falling  too.  Al 
ready  the  trees  are  bearded  with  icicles  ;  and 
the  two  broad  branches  of  yonder  pine  look 
like  the  white  mustache  of  some  old  Ger 
man  baron." 

"And  to-morrow  it  will  look  more  wintry 
still,"  said  his  friend.  "  We  shall  wake  up 
and  find  that  the  frost-spirit  has  been  at  work 
all  night  building  Gothic  cathedrals  on  our 
windows,  just  as  the  Devil  built  the  Cathe 
dral  of  Cologne.  So  draw  the  curtains,  and 
come,  sit  here  by  the  warm  fire." 

"And  now,"  said  Flemming,  having  done 
as  his  friend  desired,  "tell  me  something  of 
Heidelberg  and  its  University.  I  suppose 


bo  Hyperion 

we  shall  lead  about  as  solitary  and  studious  a 
life  here  as  we  did  of  yore  in  little  Gottingen, 
with  nothing  to  amuse  us,  save  our  own  day 
dreams." 

"  Pretty  much  so,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "which 
cannot  fail  to  please  you,  since  you  are  in  pur 
suit  of  tranquillity.  As  to  the  University,  it 
is,  as  you  know,  one  of  the  oldest  in  Ger 
many.  It  was  founded  in  the  fourteenth  cen 
tury  by  the  Count  Palatine  Ruprecht,  and  had 
in  the  first  year  more  than  five  hundred  stu 
dents,  all  busily  committing  to  memory,  after 
the  old  scholastic  wise,  the  rules  of  grammar 
versified  by  Alexander  de  Villa  Dei,  and  the 
extracts  made  by  Peter  the  Spaniard  from 
Michel  Psellus's  Synopsis  of  Aristotle's  Orga- 
non,  and  the  Categories,  with  Porphyry's  Com 
mentaries.  Truly,  I  do  not  much  wonder  that 
Krigena  Scotus  should  have  been  put  to  death 
by  his  scholars  with  their  penknives.  They 
must  have  been  pushed  to  the  very  verge 
of  despair." 

"  What  a  strange  picture  a  university  pre 
sents  to  the  imagination  !  The  lives  of  schol 
ars  in  their  cloistered  stillness  ;  —  literary  men 
of  retired  habits,  and  professors  who  study  six 
teen  hours  a  day,  and  never  see  the  world  but 


A  Romance  6 1 

on  a  Sunday.  Nature  has,  no  doubt  for  some 
wise  purpose,  placed  in  their  hearts  this  love 
of  literary  labor  and  seclusion.  Otherwise, 
who  would  feed  the  undying  lamp  of  thought  ? 
But  for  such  men  as  these,  a  blast  of  wind 
through  the  chinks  and  crannies  of  this  old 
world,  or  the  flapping  of  a  conqueror's  banner, 
would  blow  it  out  forever.  The  light  of  the 
soul  is  easily  extinguished.  And  whenever 
I  reflect  upon  these  things,  I  become  aware 
of  the  great  importance,  in  a  nation's  history, 
of  the  individual  fame  of  scholars  and  literary 
men.  I  fear  that  it  is  far  greater  than  the 
world  is  willing  to  acknowledge  ;  or,  perhaps  1 
should  say,  than  the  world  has  thought  of  ac 
knowledging.  Blot  out  from  England's  his 
tory  the  names  of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Spen 
ser,  and  Milton  only,  and  how  much  of  her 
glory  would  you  blot  out  with  them  !  Take 
from  Italy  such  names  as  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Michel  Angelo,  and  Raphael,  and 
how  much  would  be  wanting  to  the  complete 
ness  of  her  glory !  How  would  the  history 
of  Spain  look,  if  the  leaves  were  torn  out 
on  which  are  written  the  names  of  Cervantes, 
Lope  de  Vega,  and  Calderon  ?  What  would 
be  the  fame  of  Portugal,  without  her  Camoens ; 


62  Hyperion 

of  France,  without  her  Racine,  and  Rabelais, 
and  Voltaire  ;  or  of  Germany,  without  her  Mar 
tin  Luther,  her  Goethe,  and  her  Schiller  ? — . 
Nay,  what  were  the  nations  of  old,  without 
their  philosophers,  poets,  and  historians  ?  Tell 
me,  do  not  these  men,  in  all  ages  and  in  all 
places,  emblazon  with  bright  colors  the  armo 
rial  bearings  of  their  country  ?  Yes,  and  far 
more  than  this ;  for  in  all  ages  and  in  all 
places  they  give  humanity  assurance  of  its 
greatness,  and  say,  '  Call  not  this  time  or  peo 
ple  wholly  barbarous  ;  for  thus  much,  even  then 
and  there,  could  the  human  mind  achieve ! ' 
But  the  boisterous  world  has  hardly  thought  of 
acknowledging  all  this.  Therein  it  has  shown 
itself  somewhat  ungrateful.  Else,  whence  the 
great  reproach,  the  general  scorn,  the  loud 
derision,  with  which,  to  take  a  familiar  exam 
ple,  the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  re 
garded  ?  That  they  slept  their  lives  away  is 
most  untrue.  For  in  an  age  when  books 
were  few,  —  so  few,  so  precious,  that  they 
were  often  chained  to  their  oaken  shelves  with 
iron  chains,  like  galley-slaves  to  their  benches, 
—  these  men,  with  their  laborious  hands,  cop 
ied  upon  parchment  all  the  lore  and  wisdom 
of  the  past,  and  transmitted  it  to  us.  Perhaps 


A  Romance  63 

it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that,  but  for  these 
monks,  not  one  line  of  the  classics  would  have 
reached  our  day.  Surely,  then,  we  can  pardon 
something  to  those  superstitious  ages,  perhaps 
even  the  mysticism  of  the  scholastic  philoso 
phy  ;  since,  after  all,  we  can  find  no  harm 
in  it,  only  the  mistaking  of  the  possible  for 
the  real,  and  the  high  aspirings  of  the  human 
mind  after  a  long-sought  and  unknown  some 
what.  I  think  the  name  of  Martin  Luther, 
the  monk  of  Wittenberg,  alone  sufficient  to 
redeem  all  monkhood  from  the  reproach  of 
laziness.  If  this  will  not,  perhaps  the  vast 
folios  of  Thomas  Aquinas  will ;  or  the  count 
less  manuscripts,  still  treasured  in  old  libra 
ries,  whose  yellow  and  wrinkled  pages  remind 
one  of  the  hands  that  wrote  them  and  the 
faces  that  once  bent  over  them." 

"An  eloquent  homily,"  said  the  Baron, 
laughing  ;  "  a  most  touching  appeal  in  be 
half  of  suffering  humanity  !  For  my  part, 
I  am  no  friend  of  this  entire  seclusion  from 
the  world.  It  has  a  very  injurious  effect  on 
the  mind  of  a  scholar.  The  Chinese  proverb 
is  true :  a  single  conversation  across  the  table 
with  a  wise  man  is  better  than  ten  years'  mere 
study  of  books.  I  have  known  some  of  these 


64  Hyperion 

literary  men  who  thus  shut  themselves  up 
from  the  world.  Their  minds  never  come 
in  contact  with  those  of  their  fellow-men. 
They  read  little.  They  think  much.  They 
are  mere  dreamers.  They  know  not  what 
is  new  nor  what  is  old.  They  often  strike 
upon  trains  of  thought,  which  stand  written 
in  good  authors  some  century  or  so  back, 
and  are  even  current  in  the  mouths  of  men 
around  them.  But  they  know  it  not ;  and 
imagine  they  are  bringing  forward  some 
thing  very  original,  when  they  publish  their 
thoughts." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  replied  Flemming,  "  of 
what  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Goldsmith,  when 
he  proposed  to  travel  abroad  in  order  to  bring 
home  improvements:  —  'He  will  bring  home 
a  wheelbarrow,  and  call  that  an  improvement.' 
It  is  unfortunately  the  same  with  some  of 
these  scholars." 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  that,  in  solitude,  some  fixed  idea  will  often 
take  root  in  the  mind,  and  grow  till  it  over 
shadow  all  one's  thoughts.  To  this  must  all 
opinions  come  ;  no  thought  can  enter  there, 
which  shall  not  be  wedded  to  the  fixed  idea. 
There  it  remains,  and  grows.  It  is  like  the 


A  Romance  65 

watchman's  wife,  in  the  Tower  of  Waiblingen, 
who  grew  to  such  a  size,  that  she  could  not 
get  down  the  narrow  staircase  ;  and  when 
her  husband  died,  his  successor  was  forced  to 
marry  the  fat  widow  in  the  Tower." 

"  I  remember  an  old  English  comedy,"  said 
Flemming,  laughing,  "  in  which  a  scholar  is 
described  as  a  creature  that  can  strike  fire 
in  the  morning  at  his  tinder-box,  —  put  on 
a  pair  of  lined  slippers,  —  sit  ruminating  till 
dinner,  and  then  go  to  his  meat  when  the 
bell  rings  ;  —  one  that  hath  a  peculiar  gift 
in  a  cough,  and  a  license  to  spit ;  —  or,  if  you 
will  have  him  defined  by  negatives,  he  is  one 
that  cannot  make  a  good  leg,  —  one  that  can 
not  eat  a  mess  of  broth  cleanly.  What  think 
you  of  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  as  people  are  always  repre 
sented  in  English  comedy,"  said  the  Baron. 
"  The  portrait  is  overcharged,  —  caricatured." 

"•And  yet,"  continued  Flemming,  "no  long 
er  ago  than  yesterday,  in  the  preface  of  a  work 
by  a  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University 
of  Halle,  I  read  this  passage." 

He  opened  a  book  and  read  :  — 

"  Here  in  Halle,  where  we  have  no  public 
garden  and  no  Tivoli,  no  London  Exchange, 


66  Hyperion 

no  Paris  Chamber  of  Deputies,  no  Berlin  nor 
Vienna  theatres,  no  Strasburg  Minster  nor 
Salzburg  Alps,  no  Grecian  ruins  nor  fantastic 
Catholicism,  —  in  fine,  nothing,  which,  after 
one's  daily  task  is  finished,  can  divert  and 
refresh  him,  without  his  knowing  or  caring 
how,  —  I  consider  the  sight  of  a  proof-sheet 
quite  as  delightful  as  a  walk  in  the  Prater 
of  Vienna.  I  fill  my  pipe  very  quietly,  take 
out  my  inkstand  and  pens,  seat  myself  in  the 
corner  of  my  sofa,  read,  correct,  and  now  for 
the  first  time  really  set  about  thinking  what 
I  have  written.  To  see  this  origin  of  a  book, 
this  metamorphosis  of  manuscript  into  print, 
is  a  delight  to  which  I  give  myself  up  entirely. 
Look  you,  —  this  melancholy  pleasure,  which 
would  have  furnished  the  departed  Voss  with 
worthy  matter  for  more  than  one  blessed  Idyl 
(the  more  so,  as  on  such  occasions  I  am  gener 
ally  arrayed  in  a  morning  gown,  though,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  not  a  calamanco  one,  with  great 
flowers),  —  this  melancholy  pleasure  has  al 
ready  grown  here  in  Halle  to  a  sweet,  pedan 
tic  habit.  Since  I  began  my  hermit's  life 
here,  I  have  been  printing ;  and  so  long  as 
I  remain  here,  I  shall  keep  on  printing.  In 
all  probability,  I  shall  die  with  a  proof-sheei 
in  my  hand." 


A  Romance  67 

"This,"  said  Flemming,  closing  the  book, 
"is  no  caricature  by  a  writer  of  comedy,  but 
a  portrait  by  a  man's  own  hand.  We  can  see 
by  it  how  easily,  under  certain  circumstances, 
one  may  glide  into  habits  of  seclusion,  and  in 
a  kind  of  undress,  slipshod  hardihood,  with  a 
pipe  and  a  proof-sheet,  defy  the  world.  Into 
this  state  scholars  have  too  often  fallen  ;  thus 
giving  some  ground  for  the  prevalent  opinion, 
that  scholarship  and  rusticity  are  inseparable. 
To  me,  I  confess,  it  is  painful  to  see  the  scholar 
and  the  world  assume  so  often  a  hostile  atti 
tude,  and  set  each  other  at  defiance.  Surely, 
it  is  a  characteristic  trait  of  a  great  and  liberal 
mind,  that  it  recognizes  humanity  in  all  its 
forms  and  conditions.  I  am  a  student ;  —  and 
always,  when  I  sit  alone  at  night,  I  r^ognize 
the  divinity  of  the  student,  as  she  reveals  her 
self  to  me  in  the  flame  of  the  midnight  lamp. 
But,  because  solitude  and  books  are  not  un 
pleasant  to  me,  —  nay,  wished  for,  sought 
after,  —  shall  I  say  to  my  brother,  Thou  fool ! 
Shall  I  take  the  world  by  the  beard,  and 
say,  Thou  art  old,  and  mad  !  Shall  I  look 
society  in  the  face,  and  say,  Thou  art  heart 
less  !  —  Heartless  !  Beware  of  that  word  ! 
The  good  Jean  Paul  says  very  wisely,  that 


68  Hyperion 

'Life  in  every  shape  should  be  precious  to 
us,  for  the  same  reason  that  the  Turks  care 
fully  collect  every  scrap  of  paper  that  comes 
in  their  way,  because  the  name  of  God  may 
be  written  upon  it.'  Nothing  is  more  true 
than  this,  yet  nothing  more  neglected." 

"  If  it  be  painful  to  see  this  misunderstand 
ing  between  scholars  and  the  world,"  said  the 
Baron,  "  I  think  it  is  still  more  painful  to  see 
the  private  sufferings  of  authors  by  profession. 
How  many  have  languished  in  poverty,  how 
many  died  broken-hearted,  how  many  gone 
mad  with  over-excitement  and  disappointed 
hopes !  How  instructive  and  painfully  in 
teresting  are  their  lives !  with  so  many 
weaknesses,  so  much  to  pardon,  so  much 
to  pity,$so  much  to  admire  !  I  think  he  was 
not  so  far  out  of  the  way  who  said  that,  next 
to  the  Newgate  Calendar,  the  Biography  of 
Authors  is  the  most  sickening  chapter  in  the 
history  of  man." 

"  It  is  indeed  enough  to  make  one's  heart 
ache  !  "  interrupted  Flemming.  "  Only  think 
of  Johnson  and  Savage,  rambling  about  the 
streets  of  London  at  midnight,  without  a  place 
to  sleep  in  ;  Otway  starved  to  death  ;  Collins 
mad,  and  howling  like  a  dog,  through  the 


A  Romance  69 

aisles  of  Chichester  Cathedral,  at  the  sound 
of  church  music  !  and  Goldsmith,  strutting 
up  Fleet  Street  in  his  peach-blossom  coat, 
to  knock  a  bookseller  over  the  pate  with  one 
of  his  own  volumes  ;  and  then,  in  his  poverty, 
about  to  marry  his  landlady  in  Green  Arbor 
Court." 

"  A  life  of  sorrow  and  privation,  a  hard  life 
indeed,  do  these  poor  devil  authors  have  of  it," 
replied  the  Baron  ;  "  and  then  at  last  must  get 
them  to  the  workhouse,  or  creep  away  into 
some  hospital  to  die." 

"After  all,"  said  Flemming,  with  a  sigh, 
•'  poverty  is  not  a  crime.'' 

"But  something  worse,"  interrupted  the 
Baron  ;  "  as  Dufresny  said,  when  he  married 
his  laundress,  because  he  could  not  pay  her 
bill.  He  was  the  author,  as  you  know,  of  the 
opera  of  Lot,  at  whose  representation  the 
great  pun  was  made  ;  —  I  say  the  great  pun, 
as  we  say  the  great  Tun  of  Heidelberg.  As 
one  of  the  performers  was  singing  the  line, 
'  L'amoiir  a  vaincu  Lothl  (vingt  culottes})  a 
voice  from  the  pit  cried  out,  *  Qu'il  en  domic, 
line  a  ranteur  !  ' ' 

Flemming  laughed  at  the  unseasonable  jest ; 
and  then,  after  a  short  pause,  continued  :  — - 


70  Hyperion 

4) 
0 "  And  yet,  if  you  look  closely  at  the  cause? 

of  these  calamities  of  authors,  you  will  find 
that  many  of  them  spring  from  false  and  ex 
aggerated  ideas  of  poetry  and  the  poetic  char 
acter  ;  and  from  disdain  of  common  sense, 
upon  which  all  character  worth  having  is 
founded.  This  comes  from  keeping  aloof 
from  the  world,  apart  from  our  fellow-men  ; 
disdainful  of  society,  as  frivolous.  By  too 
much  sitting  still  the  body  becomes  un 
healthy,  and  soon  the  mind.  This  is  na 
ture's  law.  She  will  never  see  her  children 
wronged.  If  the  mind,  which  rules  the  body, 
ever  forgets  itself  so  far  as  to  trample  upon 
its  slave,  the  slave  is  never  generous  enough 
to  forgive  the  injury,  but  will  rise  and  smite 
its  oppressor.  Thus  has  many  a  monarch 
mind  been  dethroned." 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we  must  par 
don   much    to    men    of   genius.       A    delicate 
organization  renders  them  keenly  susceptible 
to  pain  and  pleasure.     And  then  they  idealize 
everything  ;  and,  in  the  moonlight  of  fancy, 
even  the  deformity  of  vice  seems  beautiful." 
"  And  this  you  think  should  be  forgiven  ? " 
"  At  all  events,  it  is  forgiven.     The  world 
loves    a   spice    of  wickedness.     Talk    as   you 


A   Romance  71 

|H 

will  about  principle,  impulse  is  more  attrac 
tive,  even  when  it  goes  too  far.  The  pas 
sions  of  youth,  like  unhooded  hawks,  fly  high, 
with  musical  bells  upon  their  jesses  ;  and  we 
forget  the  cruelty  of  the  sport  in  the  daunt 
less  bearing  of  the  gallant  bird." 

"And  thus  do  the  world  and  society  cor 
rupt  the  scholar!"  exclaimed  Flemming. 

Here  the  Baron  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle 
of  Prince  Metternick  He  then  very  slowly 
rilled  his  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  Flem 
ming  was  Jost  in  a  day-dream. 


72  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Literary  Fame 

TIME  has  a  Doomsday-Book,  upon  whose 
pages  he  is  continually  recording  illus 
trious  names.  But  as  often  as  a  new  name 
is  written  there,  an  old  one  disappears.  Only 
a  few  stand  in  illuminated  characters,  never 
to  be  effaced.  These  are  the  high  nobility 
of  Nature,  —  Lords  of  the  Public  Domain  of 
Thought.  Posterity  shall  never  question  their 
titles.  But  those  whose  fame  lives  only  in  the 
indiscreet  opinion  of  unwise  men,  must  soon 
be  as  well  forgotten  as  if  they  had  never  been. 
To  this  great  oblivion  must  most  men  come. 
It  is  better,  therefore,  that  they  should  soon 
make  up  their  minds  to  this,  —  well  knowing 
that,  as  their  bodies  must  erelong  be  resolved 
into  dust  again,  and  their  graves  tell  no  tales 
of  them,  so  must  their  names  likewise  be 
utterly  forgotten,  and  their  most  cherished 
thoughts,  purposes,  and  opinions  have  no 
longer  an  individual  being  among  men,  but 


A  Romance  7  3 

be  resolved  and  incorporated  into  the  uni 
verse  of  thought.  If,  then,  the  imagination 
can  trace  the  noble  dust  of  heroes-,  till  we 
find  it  stopping  a  beer-barrel,  and  know  that 

**  Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away,"- 

not  less  can  it  trace  the  noble  thoughts  of 
great  men,  till  it  finds  them  mouldered  into 
the  common  dust  of  conversation,  and  used 
to  stop  men's  mouths,  and  patch  up  theories, 
to  keep  out  the  flaws  of  opinion.  Such,  for 
example,  are  all  popular  adages  and  wise 
proverbs,  which  are  now  resolved  into  the 
common  mass  of  thought ;  their  authors  for 
gotten,  and  having  no  more  an  individual 
being  among  men. 

It  is  better,  therefore,  that  men  should 
soon  make  up  their  minds  to  be  forgotten, 
and  look  about  them,  or  within  them,  for 
some  higher  motive,  in  what  they  do,  than 
the  approbation  of  men,  which  is  Fame, — 
namely,  their  duty  ;  that  they  should  be  con 
stantly  and  quietly  at  work,  each  in  his  sphere, 
regardless  of  effects,  and  leaving  their  fame 
Jo  take  care  of  itself  Difficult  must  this 
indeed  be,  in  our  imperfection  ;  impossible, 
4 


74  Hyperion 

perhaps,  to  achieve  it  wholly.  Yet  the  reso 
lute,  the  indomitable  will  of  man  can  achieve 
much,  —  at  times,  even  this  victory  over  him 
self;  being  persuaded  that  fame  comes  only 
when  deserved,  and  then  is  as  inevitable  as 
destiny,  for  it  is  destiny. 

It  has  become  a  common  saying,  that  men 
of  genius  are  always  in  advance  of  their  age  ; 
which  is  true.  There  is  something  equally 
true,  yet  not  so  common  ;  namely,  that,  of 
these  men  of  genius,  the  best  and  bravest 
are  in  advance  not  only  of  their  own  age, 
but  of  every  age.  As  the  German  prose- 
poet  says,  every  possible  future  is  behind 
them.  We  cannot  suppose  that  a  period 
of  time  will  ever  arrive,  when  the  world,  or 
any  considerable  portion  of  it,  shall  have 
come  up  abreast  with  these  great  minds,  so 
as  fully  to  comprehend  them. 

And,  O,  how  majestically  they  walk  in  his 
tory  !  some  like  the  sun,  "  with  all  his  trav 
elling  glories  round  him "  ;  others  wrapped 
in  gloom,  yet  glorious  as  a  night  with  stars. 
Through  the  else  silent  darkness  of  the  past, 
the  spirit  hears  their  slow  and  solemn  foot 
steps.  Onward  they  pass,  like  those  hoary 
elders  seen  in  the  vision  of  an  earthly  para- 


A  Romance  75 

disc,  attendant  angels  bearing  golden  lights 
before  them,  and,  above  and  behind,  the 
whole  air  painted  with  seven  listed  colors, 
as  from  the  trail  of  pennons  ! 

And  yet,  on  earth,  these  men  were  not 
happy,  —  not  all  happy,  in  the  outward  cir 
cumstance  of  their  lives.  They  were  in 
want,  and  in  pain,  and  familiar  with  prison- 
bars,  and  the  damp,  weeping  walls  of  dun 
geons  !  O,  I  have  looked  with  wonder  upon 
those  who,  in  sorrow  and  privation,  and  bodily 
discomfort,  and  sickness,  which  is  the  shadow 
of  death,  have  worked  right  on  to  the  accom 
plishment  of  their  great  purposes ;  toiling 
much,  enduring  much,  fulfilling  much  ;  —  and 
then,  with  shattered  nerves,  and  sinews  all 
unstrung,  have  laid  themselves  down  in  the 
grave,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  death,  —  and 
the  world  talks  of  them,  while  they  sleep  ! 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  all  their  suf 
ferings  had  but  sanctified  them  ;  as  if  the 
death-angel,  in  passing,  had  touched  them 
with  the  hem  of  his  garment,  and  made  them 
holy ;  as  if  the  hand  of  disease  had  been 
stretched  out  over  them  only  to  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross  upon  their  souls !  And 
as  in  the  sun's  eclipse  we  can  behold  the 


7  6  Hyperion 

great  stars  shining  in  the  heavens,  so  in 
this  life-eclipse  have  these  men  beheld  the 
lights  of  the  great  eternity,  burning  solemnly 
and  forever ! 

This  was  Flemming's  reverie.  It  was  bro 
ken  by  the  voice  of  the  Baron,  suddenly  ex 
claiming  :  — 

"An  angel  is  flying  over  the  house!  —  Here, 

^in  this  goblet,  fragrant  as  the  honey  of  Hy- 

"  mettus,    fragrant    as    the   wild-flowers    in    the 

Angel's  Meadow,   I   drink   to  the  divinity  of 

thy  dreams." 

"This  is  all  sunshine,"  said  Flemming,  as 
he  drank.  "The  wine  of  the  Prince,  and 
che  Prince  of  wines.  By  the  way,  did  you 
ever  read  that  brilliant  Italian  dithyrambic, 
Redi's  Bacchus  in  Tuscany  ?  an  ode  which 
seems  to  have  been  poured  out  of  the  author's 
soul,  as  from  a  golden  pitcher, 

'  Filled  with  the  wine 
Of  the  vine 
Benign, 
That  flames  so  red  in  Sansovine.' 

He  calls  the  Montepulciano  the  king  of  all 
wines." 

"Prince  Metternich,"  said  the  Baron,  "is 
greater  than  any  king  in  Italy  ;  and  I  won- 


A  Romance  7  7 

der  that  this  precious  wine  has  never  inspired 
a  German  poet  to  write  a  Bacchus  on  the 
Rhine.  Many  little  songs  we  have  on  this 
theme,  but  none  very  extraordinary.  The 
best  are  Max  Schenkendorf's  Song  of  the 
Rhine,  and  the  Song  of  Rhine  Wine,  by 
Claudius,  a  poet  who  never  drank  Rhenish 
without  sugar.  We  will  drink  for  him  a 
blessing  on  the  Rhine." 

And  again  the  crystal  lips  of  the  goblets 
kissed  each  other,  with  a  musical  chime,  as 
of  evening  bells  at  vintage-time  from  the 
villages  on  the  Rhine.  Of  a  truth,  I  do  not 
much  wonder  that  the  German  poet  Schiller 
loved  to  write  by  candle-light  with  a  bottle 
of  Rhine-wine  upon  the  table.  Nor  do  I 
wonder  at  the  worthy  schoolmaster,  Roger 
Ascham,  when  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters 
from  Germany  to  Mr.  John  Raven,  of  John's 
College  :  "  Tell  Mr.  Maden  I  will  drink  with 
him  now  a  carouse  of  wine  ;  and  would  to  God 
he  had  a  vessel  of  Rhenish  wine  ;  and  per 
chance,  when  I  come  to  Cambridge,  I  will 
so  provide  here,  that  every  year  I  will  have 
a  little  piece  of  Rhenish  wine."  Nor,  in  fine, 
do  I  wonder  at  the  German  emperor  of  whom 
he  speaks  in  another  letter  to  the  same  John 


/  8  Hyperion 

Raven,  and  says,  "The  emperor  drank  the 
best  that  I  ever  saw ;  he  had  his  head  in 
the  glass  five  times  as  long  as  any  of  us, 
and  never  drank  less  than  a  good  quart  at 
once  of  Rhenish  wine." 

"  But  to  resume  our  old  theme  of  scholars 
and  their  whereabout,"  said  the  Baron,  with 
an  unusual  glow,  caught,  no  doubt,  from  the 
golden  sunshine,  imprisoned,  like  the  student 
Anselmus,  in  the  glass  bottle  ;  "  where  should 
the  scholar  live  ?  In  solitude,  or  in  society  ? 
in  the  green  stillness  of  the  country,  where  he 
can  hear  the  heart  of  Nature  beat,  or  in  the 
dark,  gray  town,  where  he  can  hear  and  feel 
the  throbbing  heart  of  man  ?  I  will  make 
answer  for  him,  and  say,  in  the  dark,  gray 
town.  O,  they  do  greatly  err  who  think 
that  the  stars  are  all  the  poetry  which  cities 
have ;  and  therefore  that  the  poet's  only  dwell 
ing  should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes,  under  the 
green  roof  of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt,  are 
all  the  forms  of  Nature,  when  transfigured 
by  the  miraculous  power  of  poetry  ;  hamlets 
and  harvest-fields,  and  nut-brown  waters,  flow 
ing  ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and  shadowy, 
with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life. 
But  after  all,  what  are  these  but  the  deco- 


A  Romance  79 

rations  and  painted  scenery  in  the  great  thea 
tre  of  human  life  ?  What  are  they  but  the 
coarse  materials  of  the  poet's  song  ?  Glorious 
indeed  is  the  world  of  God  around  us,  but 
more  glorious  the  world  of  God  within  us. 
There  lies  the  Land  of  Song  ;  there  lies  the 
poet's  native  land.  The  river  of  life,  that 
flows  through  streets  tumultuous,  bearing 
along  so  many  gallant  hearts,  so  many  wrecks 
of  humanity  ;  —  the  many  homes  and  house 
holds,  each  a  little  world  in  itself,  revolving 
round  its  fireside,  as  a  central  sun  ;  all  forms 
of  human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into  that 
narrow  compass  ;  —  and  to  be  in  this,  and 
be  a  part  of  this  ;  acting,  thinking,  rejoicing, 
sorrowing,  with  his  fellow-men  ;  —  such,  such 
should  be  the  poet's  life.  If  he  would  describe 
the  world,  he  should  live  in  the  world.  The 
mind  of  the  scholar,  if  you  would  have  it  large 
and  liberal,  should  come  in  contact  with  other 
minds.  It  is  better  that  his  armor  should  be 
somewhat  bruised  by  rude  encounters  even, 
than  hang  forever  rusting  on  the  wall.  Nor 
will  his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  ap 
parently  shut  in  between  the  walls  of  houses, 
and  having  merely  the  decorations  of  street 
scenery.  A  ruined  character  is  as  picturesque 


80  Hyperion 

as  a  ruined  castle.  There  are  dark  abysses 
and  yawning  gulfs  in  the  human  heart,  which 
can  be  rendered  passable  only  by  bridging 
them  over  with  iron  nerves  and  sinews,  as 
Challey  bridged  the  Sarine  in  Switzerland, 
and  Telford  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and 
England,  with  chain  bridges.  These  are  the 
great  themes  of  human  thought  ;  not  green 
grass,  and  flowers,  and  moonlight.  Besides, 
the  mere  external  forms  of  Nature  we  make 
our  own,  and  carry  with  us  everywhere,  by 
the  power  of  memory." 

"I  fear,  however,"  interrupted  Flemming, 
"  that  in  towns  the  soul  of  man  grows  proud. 
He  needs  at  times  to  be  sent  forth,  like  the 
Assyrian  monarch,  into  green  fields,  '  a  won 
drous  wretch  and  weedless,'  to  eat  green 
herbs,  and  be  wakened  and  chastised  by  the 
rain  shower  and  winter's  bitter  weather. 
Moreover,  in  cities  there  is  danger  of  the 
soul's  becoming  wed  to  pleasure,  and  forget 
ful  of  its  high  vocation.  There  have  been 
souls  dedicated  to  heaven  from  childhood,  and 
guarded  by  good  angels  as  sweet  seclusions 
for  holy  thoughts,  and  prayers,  and  all  good 
purposes  ;  wherein  pious  wishes  dwelt  like 
nuns,  and  every  image  was  a  saint  ;  and  yet 


A  Romance  8  T 

in  life's  vicissitudes,  by  the  treachery  of  occa 
sion,  by  the  thronging  passions  of  great  cities, 
have  become  soiled  and  sinful.  They  resem 
ble  those  convents  on  the  river  Rhine,  which 
have  been  changed  to  taverns  ;  from  whose 
chambers  the  pious  inmates  have  long  de 
parted,  and  in  whose  cloisters  the  footsteps 
of  travellers  have  effaced  the  images  of  buried 
saints,  and  whose  walls  are  written  over  with 
ribaldry  and  the  names  of  strangers,  and  re 
sound  no  more  with  holy  hymns,  but  with 
revelry  and  loud  voices." 

"Both  town  and  country  have  their  dan 
gers,"  said  the  Baron  ;  "  and  therefore,  wher 
ever  the  scholar  lives,  he  must  never  forget 
his  high  vocation.  Other  artists  give  them 
selves  up  wholly  to  the  study  of  their  art. 
It  becomes  with  them  almost  religion.  For 
the  most  part,  and  in  their  youth  at  least, 
they  dwell  in  lands  where  the  whole  atmos 
phere  of  the  soul  is  beauty  ;  laden  with  it, 
as  the  air  may  be  with  vapor,  till  their  very 
nature  is  saturated  with  the  genius  of  their 
art.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  artist's  life  in 
Italy." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming  ; 
"and  such  should  be  the  poet's  everywhere; 


8  2  Hyperion 

for  he  has  his  Rome,  his  Florence,  his  whole 
glowing  Italy,  within  the  four  walls  of  his 
library.  He  has  in  his  books  the  ruins  of  an 
antique  world,  —  and  the  glories  of  a  modern 
one,  —  his  Apollo  and  Transfiguration.  He 
must  neither  forget  nor  undervalue  his  voca 
tion  ;  but  thank  God  that  he  is  a  poet ;  and 
everywhere  be  true  to  himself,  and  to  '  the 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine '  he  recognizes 
within  him." 

"  But,  at  any  rate,  a  town  life  is  most  event 
ful,"  continued  the  Baron.  "  The  men  who 
make,  or  take,  the  lives  of  poets  and  scholars, 
always  complain  that  these  lives  are  barren 
of  incidents.  Hardly  a  literary  biography 
begins  without  some  such  apology,  unwisely 
made.  I  confess,  however,  that  it  is  not  made 
without  some  show  of  truth,  if  by  incidents 
we  mean  only  those  startling  events  which 
suddenly  turn  aside  the  stream  of  time,  and 
change  the  world's  history  in  an  hour.  There 
is  certainly  a  uniformity,  pleasing  or  unpleas- 
ing,  in  literary  life,  which  for  the  most  part 
makes  to-day  seem  twin-born  with  yesterday. 
But  if  by  incidents  you  mean  events  in  the 
history  of  the  human  mind,  (and  why  not?) 
noiseless  events,  that  do  not  scar  the  forehead 


A  Romance  8  3 

of  the  world  as  battles  do,  yet  change  it  not 
the  less,  then  surely  the  lives  of  literary  men 
are  most  eventful.  The  complaint  and  the 
apology  are  both  foolish.  I  do  not  see  why 
a  successful  book  is  not  as  great  an  event 
as  a  successful  campaign  ;  only  different  in 
kind,  and  not  easily  compared." 

"  Indeed,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "  in  no 
sense  is  the  complaint  strictly  true,  though 
at  times  apparently  so.  Events  enough  there 
are,  were  they  all  set  down.  A  life  that 
is  worth  writing  at  all  is  worth  writing  mi 
nutely.  Besides,  all  literary  men  have  not 
lived  in  silence  and  solitude  ;  —  not  all  in  still 
ness,  not  all  in  shadow.  For  many  have  lived 
in  troubled  times,  in  the  rude  and  adverse  for 
tunes  of  the  state  and  age,  and  could  say,  with 
Wallenstein, 

'  Our  life  was  but  a  battle  and  a  march  ; 
And,  like  the  wind's  blast,   never  resting,  homeless, 
We  stormed  across  the  war-convulsed  eartfe,* 

Many  such  examples  has  history  recorded,  - 
Dante,   Cervantes,    Byron,    and    others ;    men 
of  iron,  —  men  who  have  dared  to  breast  the 
strong  breath  of  public  opinion,  and,  like  spec 
tre-ships,  come  sailing  right  against  the  wind. 


84  Hyperion 

Others  have  been  puffed  out  by  the  first  ad 
verse  wind  that  blew  ;  disgraced  and  sorrow 
ful,  because  they  could  not  please  others. 
Had  they  been  men,  they  would  have  made 
these  disappointments  their  best  friends,  and 
learned  from  them  the  needful  lesson  of  self- 
reliance." 

"  To  confess  the  truth,"  added  the  Baron, 
"  the  lives  of  literary  men,  with  their  hopes 
and  disappointments,  and  quarrels  and  calam 
ities,  present  a  melancholy  picture  of  man's 
strength  and  weakness.  On  that  very  ac 
count  the  scholar  can  make  them  profitable 
for  encouragement,  consolation,  warning." 

"And  after  all,"  continued  Flemming,  "per 
haps  the  greatest  lesson  which  the  lives  of 
literary  men  teach  us  is  told  in  a  single  word  : 
Wait!  —  Every  man  must  patiently  bide  his 
time.  He  must  wait.  More  particularly  in 
lands  like  my  native  land,  where  the  pulse 
of  life  beats  with  such  feverish  and  impatient 
throbs,  is  the  lesson  needful.  Our  national 
character  wants  the  dignity  of  repose.  We 
seem  to  live  in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  —  there 
is  such  a  din,  such  a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  In 
the  streets  of  a  crowded  city  it  is  difficult  to 
walk  slowly.  You  feel  the  rushing  of  the 


A  Romance  85 

crowd,  and  rush  with  it  onward.  In  the  press 
of  our  life  it  is  difficult  to  be  calm.  In  this 
stress  of  wind  and  tide,  all  professions  seem 
to  drag  their  anchors,  and  are  swept  out  into 
the  main.  The  voices  of  the  Present  say, 
'  Come  ! '  But  the  voices  of  the  Past  say, 
'  Wait  ! '  With  calm  and  solemn  footsteps 
the  rising  tide  bears  against  the  rushing  tor 
rent  up  stream,  and  pushes  back  the  hurrying 
waters.  With  no  less  calm  and  solemn  foot 
steps,  nor  less  certainty,  does  a  great  mind 
bear  up  against  public  opinion,  and  push  back 
its  hurrying  stream.  Therefore  should  every 
man  wait,  —  should  bide  his  time.  Not  in 
listless  idleness,  —  not  in  useless  pastime,  — 
not  in  querulous  dejection,- — but  in  constant, 
steady,  cheerful  endeavors,  always  willing  and 
fulfilling,  and  accomplishing  his  task,  that, 
when  the  occasion  comes,  he  may  be  equal 
to  the  occasion.  And  if  it  never  comes,  what 
matters  it  ?  What  matters  it  to  the  world, 
whether  I,  or  you,  or  another  man  did  such 
a  deed,  or  wrote  such  a  book,  so  be  it  the 
deed  and  book  were  well  done  ?  It  is  the 
part  of  an  indiscreet  and  troublesome  am 
bition  to  care  too  much  about  fame,  • —  about 
what  the  world  says  of  us  ;  —  to  be  always 


86  Hyperion 

looking  into  the  faces  of  others  for  approval  ; 
to  be  always  anxious  for  the  effect  of  what 
we  do  and  say  ;  to  be  always  shouting  to  heai 
the  echo  of  our  own  voices.  If  you  look  about 
you,  you  will  see  men  who  are  wearing  life 
away  in  feverish  anxiety  of  fame,  and  the  last 
we  shall  ever  hear  of  them  will  be  the  funeral 
bell  that  tolls  them  to  their  early  graves ! 
Unhappy  men,  and  unsuccessful  !  because 
their  purpose  is,  not  to  accomplish  well  their 
task,  but  to  clutch  the  '  trick  and  fantasy  of 
fame '  ;  and  they  go  to  their  graves  with  pur 
poses  unaccomplished  and  wishes  unfulfilled. 
Better  for  them,  and  for  the  world  in  their 
example,  had  they  known  how  to  wait !  Be 
lieve  me,  the  talent  of  success  is  nothing  more 
than  doing  what  you  can  do  well  ;  and  doing 
well  whatever  you  do,  —  without  a  thought 
of  fame.  If  it  come  at  all,  it  will  come  be 
cause  it  is  deserved,  not  because  it  is  sought 
after.  And,  moreover,  there  will  be  no  .mis 
givings,  no  disappointment,  no  hasty,  feverish, 
exhausting  excitement." 


Thus  endeth  the  First  Book  of  Hyperion. 
I  make  no  record  of  the  winter.     Paul  Flcm- 


A  Romance  87 

ming  buried  himself  in  books,  —  in  old,  dusty 
books.  He  worked  his  way  diligently  through 
the  ancient  poetic  lore  of  Germany,  from 
Prankish  Legends  of  Saint  George,  and  Sax 
on  Rhyme-Chronicles,  and  Nibelungen-Lieds, 
and  Helden-Buchs,  and  Songs  of  the  Min 
nesingers  and  Meistersingers,  and  Ships  of 
Fools,  and  Reynard  the  Foxes,  and  Death- 
Dances,  and  Lamentations  of  Damned  Souls, 
into  the  bright,  sunny  land  of  harvests,  where, 
amid  the  golden  grain  and  the  blue  corn 
flowers,  walk  the  modern  bards,  and  sing. 


BOOK    THE    SECOND 


Something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish, 
Must  love,  and  joy,  and  sorrow  learn  ; 

Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 


BOOK    THE    SECOND 

CHAPTER    I. 
Spring 

IT  was  a  sweet  carol  which  the    Rhodian 
children   sang   of  old   in   Spring,  bearing 
in  their  hands,  from  door  to  door,  a  swallow, 
as  herald  of  the  season  :  - 

"  The  Swallow  is  come  ! 
The  Swallow  is  come  ! 
O,  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 
Are  the  clays  that  she  brings, 
With  her  dusky  wings, 
And  her  bosom  snowy  white  !  " 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that  which  the  Hun 
garian  boys,  on  the  islands  of  the  Danube, 
sing  to  the  returning  stork  in  Spring:  — 

"  Stork  !  Stork  !  poor  Stork  ! 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody  ? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it ; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
WTith  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum." 


9-  Hyperion 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this 
capricious  clime  of  ours,  where  Spring  comes 
sailing  in  from  the  sea,  with  wet  and  heavy 
cloud-sails,  and  the  misty  pennon  of  the  East- 
wind  nailed  to  the  mast  ?  Yet  even  here,  and 
in  the  stormy  month  of  March  even,  there 
are  bright,  warm  mornings,  when  we  open 
our  windows  to  inhale  the  balmy  air.  The 
pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  and  we  hear  the  whir 
ring  sound  of  wings.  Old  flies  crawl  out  of 
the  clacks,  to  sun  themselves,  and  think  it 
is  Summer.  They  die  in  their  conceit ;  and 
so  do  our  hearts  within  us,  when  the  cold 
sea-breath  comes  from  the  eastern  sea,  and 
again 

"The  driving  hail 
Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail." 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom, 
its  beautiful  purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fort 
night  before  the  leaves.  The  moose-wood  fol 
lows,  with  rose-colored  buds  and  leaves  ;  and 
the  dog-wood,  robed  in  the  white  of  its  own 
pure  blossoms.  Then  comes  the  sudden  rain 
storm  ;  and  the  birds  fly  to  and  fro,  and  shriek. 
Where  do  they  hide  themselves  in  such  storms  ? 
at  what  firesides  dry  their  feathery  cloaks  ? 
At  the  fireside  of  the  great,  hospitable  sun,— 


A  Romance  93 

to-morrow,  not  before  ;  —  they  must  sit  in  wet 
garments  until  then. 

In  all  climates  Spring  is  beautiful.  In  the 
South  it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside 
himself.  The  birds  begin  to  sing  ;  they  utter 
a  few  rapturous  notes,  and  then  wait  for  an 
answer  in  the  silent  woods.  Those  green- 
coated  musicians,  the  frogs,  make  holiday  in 
the  neighboring  marshes.  They,  too,  belong 
to  the  orchestra  of  Nature,  whose  vast  theatre 
is  again  opened,  though  the  doors  have  been 
so  long  bolted  with  icicles,  and  the  scenery 
hung  with  snow  and  frost  like  cobwebs.  This 
is  the  prelude  which  announces  the  opening 
of  the  scene.  Already  the  grass  shoots  forth. 
The  waters  leap  with  thrilling  pulse  through 
the  veins  of  the  earth  ;  the  sap  through  the 
veins  of  the  plants  and  trees  ;  and  the  blood 
through  the  veins  of  man.  What  a  thrill  of 
delight  in  Spring-time  !  What  a  joy  in  being 
and  moving  !  Men  are  at  work  in  gardens  ; 
and  in  the  air  there  is  an  odor  of  the  fresh 
earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin  to  swell  and  blush. 
The  white  blossoms  of  the  cherry  hang  upon 
the  boughs  like  snow-flakes  ;  and  erelong  our 
next-door  neighbors  will  be  completely  hidden 
from  us  by  the  dense  green  foliage.  The  May- 


94  Hyperion 

flowers  open  their  soft  blue  eyes.  Children 
are  let  loose  in  the  fields  and  gardens.  They 
hold  buttercups  under  each  other's  chins,  to 
see  if  they  love  butter.  And  the  little  girls 
adorn  themselves  with  chains  and  curls  of  dan 
delions  ;  pull  out  the  yellow  leaves,  to  see  if 
the  school-boy  loves  them,  and  blow  the  down 
from  the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their 
mothers  want  them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still !  Not 
a  voice  of  living  thing,  —  not  a  whisper  of  leaf 
or  waving  bough,  —  not  a  breath  of  wind,  — 
not  a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air ! 
And  overhead  bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and 
soft,  and  radiant  with  innumerable  stars,  like 
the  inverted  bell  of  some  blue  flower,  sprinkled 
with  golden  dust,  and  breathing  fragrance. 
Or  if  the  heavens  are  overcast,  it  is  no  wild 
storm  of  wind  and  rain,  but  clouds  that  melt 
and  fall  in  showers.  One  does  not  wish  to 
sleep,  but  lies  awake  to  hear  the  pleasant 
sound  of  the  dropping  rain. 

It  was  thus  the  Spring  began  in  Heidel 
berg. 


A.  Romance 


95 


CHAPTER    II. 
A    Colloquy 

"  \  ND  what  think  you  of  Tiedge's  Urania?" 
•*-*>  said  the  Baron,  smiling,  as  Paul  Flem- 
ming  closed  the  book,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
table. 

"  I  think,"  said  Flemming,  "  that  it  is  very 
much  like  Jean  Paul's  grandfather, — in  the 
highest  degree  poor  and  pious." 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  That  is 
the  best  criticism  I  have  heard  upon  the  book. 
For  my  part,  I  dislike  it  as  much  as  Goethe 
did.  It  was  once  very  popular,  and  lay  about 
in  every  parlor  and  bedroom.  This  annoyed 
the  old  gentleman  exceedingly  ;  and  I  do  not 
wonder  at  it.  He  complains  that  at  one  time 
nothing  was  sung  or  said  but  this  Urania. 
He  believed  in  Immortality ;  but  wished  to 
cherish  his  belief  in  quietness.  He  once  told 
a  friend  of  his,  that  he  had,  however,  learned 
one  thing  from  all  this  talk  about  Tiedge  and 
his  Urania  ;  which  was,  that  the  saints,  as  well 


g6  Hyperion 

as  the  nobility,  constitute  an  aristocracy.  He 
said  he  found  stupid  women  who  were  proud 
because  they  believed  in  Immortality  with 
Tiedsce,  and  bad  to  submit  himself  to  not  a 

O      ' 

few  mysterious  catechizings  and  tea-table  lec 
tures  on  this  point ;  and  that  he  cut  them  short 
by  saying,  that  he  had  no  objection  whatever 
to  enter  into  another  state  of  existence  here 
after,  but  prayed  only  that  he  might  be  spared 
the  honor  of  meeting  there  any  of  those  who 
had  believed  in  it  here,  —  for,  if  he  did,  they 
would  flock  around  him  on  all  sides,  exclaim 
ing,  '  Were  we  not  in  the  right  ?  Did  we  not 
tell  you  so  ?  Has  it  not  all  turned  out  just  as 
we  said  ? ' ' 

"  How  shocked  the  good  old  ladies  must 
have  been  ! "  said  Flemming. 

"  No  doubt,  their  nerves  suffered  a  little  ; 
but  the  young  women  loved  him  all  the  better 
for  being  witty  and  wicked,  —  and  thought, 
if  they  could  only  marry  him,  how  they  would 
reform  him." 

"  Bettina  Brentano,  for  instance." 

"  O,  no  !  That  happened  long  afterwards. 
Goethe  was  then  an  old  man  of  sixty.  She 
had  never  seen  him,  and  knew  him  only  by 
his  writings :  a  romantic  girl  of  seventeen." 


A  Romance  97 

"And  yet  much  in  love  with  the  sexagena 
rian.  And  surely,  a  more  wild,  fantastic  pas 
sion  never  sprang  up  in  woman's  breast.  She 
was  a  flower  that  worshipped  the  sun." 

"  She  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim, 
and  is  now  a  widow.  And  not  the  least  singu 
lar  part  of  the  affair  is,  that,  having  grown 
older,  and  I  hope  colder,  she  should  herself 
publish  the  letters  which  passed  between  her 
and  Goethe." 

"  Particularly  the  letter  in  which  she  de 
scribes  her  first  visit  to  Weimar,  and  her 
interview  with  the  hitherto  invisible  divinity 
of  her  dreams.  The  old  gentleman  took  her 
upon  his  knees,  and  she  fell  asleep  with  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder.  Oberon  must  have 
touched  her  eyes  with  the  juice  of  Love-in- 
idleness.  However,  this  book  of  Goethe's 
Correspondence  with  a  Child  is  a  very  sin 
gular  and  valuable  revelation  of  the  feelings 
which  he  excited  in  female  hearts.  You  say 
she  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  he  and  her  brother,  Clemens 
Brentano,  published  that  wondrous  book,  the 
Boy's  Wonder-Horn." 

"  The  Boy's  Wonder-Horn  ! "  said  Flem- 
ming,  after  a  short  pause,  for  the  name 


98  Hyperion 

seemed  to  have  thrown  him  into  a  reverie  ; — • 
"  I  know  the  book  almost  by  heart.  Of  all 
your  German  books,  it  is  the  one  which  pro 
duces  upon  my  imagination  the  most  wild  and 
magic  influence.  I  have  a  passion  for  bal 
lads  ! " 

"And  who  has  not  ?"  said  the  Baron,  with  a 
smile.  "  They  are  the  gypsy-children  of  song, 
born  under  green  hedgerows,  in  the  leafy  lanes 
and  by-paths  of  literature,  —  in  the  genial 
Summer-time." 

"Why  do  you  say  Summer-time,  and  not 
Summer  ? "  inquired  Flemming.  "  The  ex 
pression  reminds  me  of  your  old  Minnesing 
ers  ;  —  of  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  Wal- 
ther  von  der  Vogelweide,  and  Count  Kraft 
von  Toggenburg,  and  your  own  ancestor,  I 
dare  say,  Burkhart  von  Hohenfels.  They 
were  always  singing  of  the  gentle  Summer 
time.  They  seemed  to  have  lived  poetry,  as 
well  as  sung  it ;  like  the  birds  who  make  their 
marriage-beds  in  the  voluptuous  trees." 

"  Is  that  from  Shakespeare  ? " 

"  No  ;  from  Lope  de  Vega." 

"You  are  deeply  read  in  the  lore  of  an 
tiquity,  and  the  Aubades  and  Watch-Songs 
f  the  old  Minnesingers.  What  do  you  think 


A  Romance  99 

of  the  shoemaker  poets  that  came  after  them, 
—  with  their  guilds  and  singing-schools?  It 
makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  the  great  streams 
of  your  German  Helicon,  shrunk  to  small  rivu 
lets,  go  bubbling  and  gurgling  over  the  pebbly 
names  of  Zwinger,  Wurgendrussel,  Buchenlin, 
Hellfire,  Old  Stoll,  Young  Stoll,  Strong  Bopp, 
Dang  Brotscheim,  Batt  Spiegel,  Peter  Pfort, 
and  Martin  Gumpel.  And  then  the  Corpora 
tion  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  with  their 
stumpfe-reime  and  klingende-reime,  and  their 
Hans  Tindeisen's  rosemary-weise,  and  Joseph 
Schmierer's  flowery-paradise-weise,  and  Frau- 
enlob's  yellow-weise,  and  blue-weise,  and  frog- 
weise,  and  looking-glass-weise  !  " 

"  O,  I  entreat  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming, 
laughing,  "  do  not  call  those  men  poets  !  You 
transport  me  to  quaint  old  Nuremberg,  and  I 
see  Hans  Sachs  making  shoes,  and  Hans  Folz 
shaving  the  burgomaster." 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  the  Baron,  "  did 
you  ever  read  Hoffmann's  beautiful  story  of 
Master  Martin,  the  Cooper  of  Nuremberg  ?  I 
will  read  it  to  you  this  very  night.  It  is  the 
most  delightful  picture  of  that  age  which  you 
can  conceive.  But  look  !  the  sun  has  already 
set  behind  the  Alsatian  hills.  Let  us  go  up  to 


i  oo  Hyperion 

the  castle  and  look  for  the  ghost  in  Prince 
Ruprccht's  tower.  O,  what  a  glorious  sun 
set  ! " 

Flemming  looked  at  the  evening  sky,  and  a 
shade  of  sadness  stole  over  his  countenance. 
He  told  not  to  his  friend  the  sorrow  with 
which  his  heart  was  heavy,  but  kept  it  for 
himself  alone.  He  knew  that  the  time,  which 
comes  to  all  men,  —  the  time  to  suffer  and  be 
silent,  —  had  come  to  him  likewise,  and  he 
spake  no  word.  O,  well  has  it  been  said,  that 
there  is  no  grief  like  the  grief  which  does  not 
speak ! 


A  Romance  101 


CHAPTER    III. 

Owl-  Towers 


sits  the  old  Fran  Himmelauen, 
perched  up  in  her  owl-tower,"  said  the 
B&.ron  to  Flemming,  as  they  passed  along  the 
Hauptstrasse.  "  She  looks  down  through  her 
round-eyed  spectacles  from  her  nest  there, 
and  watches  every  one  that  goes  by.  I  won 
der  what  mischief  she  is  hatching  now.  Do 
you  know  she  has  nearly  ruined  your  character 
in  town  ?  She  says  you  have  a  rakish  look, 
because  you  carry  a  cane,  and  your  hair  curls. 
Your  gloves,  also,  are  a  shade  too  light  for  a 
strictly  virtuous  man." 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  her  to  take  such  good 
care  of  my  character,  particularly  as  I  am  a 
stranger  in  town.  She  is  doubtless  learned  in 
the  Clothes-Philosophy." 

"And  ignorant  of  'everything  else.  She 
asked  a  friend  of  mine,  the  other  day,  whether 
Christ  was  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant." 

H  That  is  really  too  absurd  !  " 


IO2  Hyperion 

"  Not  too  absurd  to  be  true.  And,  ignorant 
as  she  is,  she  contrives  to  do  a  good  deal  of 
mischief  in  the  course  of  the  year.  Why,  the 
women  already  call  you  Wilhelm  Meister." 

"  They  are  at  liberty  to  call  me  what  they 
please.  But  you,  who  know  me  better,  know 
that  I  am  something  more  than  they  would 
imply  by  the  name." 

"  She  says,  moreover,  that  the  American 
women  sit  with  their  feet  out  of  the  window, 
and  have  no  pocket-handkerchiefs." 

"  Excellent ! " 

They  crossed  the  market-place,  and  went  up 
beneath  the  grand  terrace  into  the  court-yard 
of  the  castle. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  under  the  great  linden- 
trees,  that  grow  on  the  summit  of  the  Rent 
Tower,"  said  Flemming.  "  From  that  point 
as  from  a  watch-tower,  we  can  look  down  into 
the  garden,  and  see  the  crowd  below  us." 

"And  amuse  ourselves,  as  old  Frau  Him- 
melauen  docs  at  her  window  in  the  Haupt- 
strasse,"  added  the  Baron. 

The  keeper's  daughter  unlocked  for  them 
the  door  of  the  tower,  and,  climbing  the  steep 
staircase,  they  seated  themselves  on  a  wooden 
bench  under  the  linden-trees. 


A  Romance  103 

"  How  beautifully  these  trees  overgrow  the 
old  tower !  And  see  what  a  solid  mass  of 
masonry  lies  in  the  great  fosse  down  there, 
toppled  from  its  base  by  the  explosion  of  a 
mine !  It  is  like  a  rusty  helmet  cleft  in  twain, 
but  still  crested  with  towering  plumes ! " 

"  And  what  a  motley  crowd  in  the  garden  ! 
Philisters  and  Sons  of  the  Muses  !  And  there 
goes  the  venerable  Thibaut,  taking  his  even 
ing  stroll.  Do  you  see  him  there,  with  his 
silver  hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  and  that 
friendly  face,  which  has  for  so  many  years 
pored  over  the  Pandects  ?  I  assure  you,  he 
inspires  me  with  awe.  And  yet  he  is  a  merry 
old  man,  and  loves  his  joke,  particularly  at 
the  expense  of  Moses  and  other  ancient  law 
givers." 

Here  their  attention  was  diverted  by  a  wild- 
looking  person,  who  passed  with  long  strides 
under  the  archway  in  the  fosse,  right  beneath 
them,  and  disappeared  among  the  bushes.  He 
was  ill-dressed,  his  hair  flying  in  the  wind,  his 
movements  hurried  and  nervous,  and  the  ex 
pression  of  his  broad  countenance  wild,  strange, 
and  earnest. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Flemming.  "  He 
strides  away  indignantly,  like  one  of  Ossian's 
ghosts  !  " 


1 04  Hyperion 

"A  great  philosopher,  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten.  Truly,  a  strange  owl !  " 

"  He  looks  like  a  lion  with  a  hat  on." 

"  He  is  a  mystic,  who  reads  Schubert's  HistO" 
ry  of  the  Soul,  and  lives,  for  the  most  part,  in 
the  clouds  of  the  Middle  Ages.  To  him  the 
spirit-world  is  still  open.  He  believes  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls  ;  and  I  dare  say  is  now 
following  the  spirit  of  some  departed  friend, 
who  has  taken  the  form  of  yonder  pigeon." 

"  What  a  strange  hallucination  !  He  lives, 
I  suppose,  in  the  land  of  cloud-shadows.  And, 
as  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  was  said  to  be  lifted 
up  from  the  ground  by  the  fervor  of  his 
prayers,  so,  no  doubt,  is  he  by  the  fervor  of 
his  visions." 

"  He  certainly  appears  to  neglect  all  sublu 
nary  things  ;  and,  to  judge  from  certain  appear 
ances,  since  you  seem  fond  of  holy  similitudes, 
one  would  say,  that,  like  St.  Serapion  the  Sin- 
donite,  he  had  but  one  shirt.  Yet  what  cares 
he  ?  he  lives  in  that  poetic  dream-land  of  his 
thoughts,  and  clothes  himself  in  poetry." 

"  He  is  a  poet,  then,  as  well  as  a  philoso 
pher  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  a  poet  who  never  writes.  There 
is  nothing  in  nature  to  which  his  imagination 


A   Romance  105 

does  not  give  a  poetic  hue.  But  the  power  to 
make  others  see  these  objects  in  the  same 
poetic  light  is  wanting.  Still  he  is  a  man  of 
fine  powers  and  feelings  ;  for  next  to  being 
a  great  poet  is  the  power  of  understanding 
one,  —  of  finding  one's  self  in  him,  as  we  Ger 
mans  say." 

Three  figures,  dressed  in  black,  now  came 
from  one  of  the  green  alleys,  and  stopped  on 
the  brink  of  a  fountain  that  was  playing  among 
the  gay  flowers  in  the  garden.  The  eldest  of 
the  three  was  a  woman  in  that  season  of  life 
when  the  early  autumn  gives  to  the  summer 
leaves  a  warmer  glow,  yet  fades  them  not. 
Though  the  mother  of  many  children,  she  was 
still  beautiful ;  —  resembling  those  trees  which 
blossom  in  October,  when  the  leaves  are  chan 
ging,  and  whose  fruit  and  blossom  are  on  the 
branch  at  once.  At  her  side  was  a  girl  of 
some  sixteen  years,  who  seemed  to  lean  upon 
her  arm  for  support.  Her  figure  was  slight ; 
her  countenance  beautiful,  though  deadly 
white  ;  and  her  meek  eyes  like  the  flower  of 
the  nightshade,  pale  and  blue,  but  sending 
forth  golden  rays.  They  were  attended  by  a 
tall  youth  of  foreign  aspect,  who  seemed  a 
young  Antinoiis,  with  a  mustache  and  a  nose 
5* 


io6  Hyperion 

a  la  Kosciusko.     In  other  respects  a  perfect 
hero  of  romance. 

"  Unless  mine  eyes  deceive  me,"  said  the 
Baron,  "  there  is  the  Fran  von  Ilmenau,  with 
her  pale  daughter  Emma,  and  that  eternal 
Polish  count.  He  is  always  hovering  about 
them,  playing  the  unhappy  exile,  merely  to 
excite  that  poor  girl's  sympathies ;  and  as 
wretched  as  genius  and  wantonness  can  make 
him." 

"Why,  he  is  already  married,  you  know," 
replied  Flemming.  "And  his  wife  is  young 
and  beautiful." 

"  That  does  not  prevent  him  from  being  in 
love  with  some  one  else.  That  question  was 
decided  in  the  Courts  of  Love  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Accordingly  he  has  sent  his  fair  wife 
to  Warsaw.  But  how  pale  the  poor  child 
looks ! " 

"  She  has  just  recovered  from  severe  illness. 
In  the  winter,  you  know,  it  was  thought  she 
would  not  live  from  hour  to  hour." 

"And  she  has  hardly  recovered  from  that 
disease,  before  she  seems  threatened  with  a 
worse  one  ;  namely,  a  hopeless  passion.  How 
ever,  people  do  not  die  of  love  now-a-days." 

"  Seldom,  perhaps,"  said  Flemming.     "  And 


A  Romance  107 

yet  it  is  folly  to  pretend  that  one  ever  wholly 
recovers  from  a  disappointed  passion.  Such 
wounds  always  leave  a  scar.  There  are  faces 
I  can  never  look  upon  without  emotion.  There 
are  names  I  can  never  hear  spoken  without 
almost  starting." 

"  But  whom  have  we  here  ? " 

"  That  is  the  French  poet  Quinet,  with  his 
fair  German  wife  ;  one  of  the  most  interesting 
women  I  ever  knew.  He  is  the  author  of  a 
very  wild  Mystery,  or  dramatic  prose-poem,  in 
which  the  Ocean,  Mont  Blanc,  and  the  Cathe 
dral  of  Strasburg  have  parts  to  play  ;  and  the 
saints  on  the  stained  windows  of  the  minster 
speak,  and  the  statues  and  dead  kings  enact 
the  Dance  of  Death.  It  is  entitled  Ahasue- 
rus,  or  the  Wandering  Jew." 

"  Or,  as  the  Danes  would  translate  it,  the 
Shoemaker  of  Jerusalem.  That  would  be  a 
still  more  fantastic  title  for  his  fantastic  book. 
You  know  I  am  no  great  admirer  of  the  mod 
ern  French  school  of  writers.  The  tales  of 
Paul  de  Kock  seem  to  me  like  obscene  stories 
told  at  dinner-tables.  It  has  been  truly  said 
of  him,  that  he  is  not  only  populaire,  but  popu- 
lacier ;  and  rather  harshly  of  George  Sand 
and  Victor  Hugo,  that  their  works  stand  like 


T  08  Hyperion 

fortifications,  well  built  and  well  supplied  with 
warlike  munitions  ;  but  ineffectual  against  the 
Grand  Army  of  God,  which  marches  onward, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  In  surveying  a 
national  literature,  the  point  you  must  start 
from  is  national  character.  That  lets  you  into 
many  a  secret.  The  most  prominent  trait  in 
the  French  character  is  love  of  amusement 
and  excitement ;  and " 

"  I  should  say,  rather,  the  fear  of  ennui," 
interrupted  Flemming.  "  Some  one  has  said, 
with  a  great  deal  of  truth,  that  the  gentry  of 
France  rush  into  Paris  to  escape  from  ennui,  as, 
in  the  noble  days  of  chivalry,  the  defenceless 
inhabitants  of  the  champaign  fled  into  the  eas- 
tles  at  the  approach  of  some  plundering  knight 
or  lawless  baron  :  forsaking  the  inspired  twi 
light  of  their  native  groves,  for  the  luxurious 
shades  of  the  royal  gardens.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ? " 

The  Baron  replied,  with  a  smile  :  — 

"  There  is  only  one  Paris  ;  and  out  of  Paris 
there  is  no  salvation  for  decent  people." 

Thus  conversing  of  many  things  sat  the  two 
friends  under  the  linden-trees  on  the  Rent- 
Tower,  till  gradually  the  crowd  disappeared 
from  the  garden,  and  the  objects  around  them 


A  Romance  1 09 

grew  indistinct,  in  the  fading  twilight.  Be 
tween  them  and  the  amber-colored  western 
sky,  the  dense  foliage  of  the  trees  looked  heavy 
and  hard  as  if  cast  in  bronze  ;  and  already  the 
evening  stars  hung  like  silver  lamps  in  the 
towering  branches  of  that  Tree  of  Life,  brought 
more  than  two  centuries  ago  from  its  primeval 
paradise  in  America,  to  beautify  the  gardens 
of  the  Palatinate. 

"  I  take  a  mournful  pleasure  in  gazing  at 
that  tree,"  said  Flemming,  as  they  rose  to 
depart.  "  It  stands  there*so  straight  and  tall, 
with  iron  bands  around  its  noble  trunk  and 
limbs,  in  silent  majesty,  or  whispering  only  in 
its  native  tongue,  and  freighting  the  homeward 
wind  with  sighs  !  It  reminds  me  of  some  cap 
tive  monarch  of  a  savage  tribe,  brought  over 
the  vast  ocean  for  a  show,  and  chained  in  the 
public  market-place  of  the  city,  disdainfully 
silent,  or  breathing  only  in  melancholy  accents 
a  prayer  for  his  native  forest,  a  longing  to  be 
free." 

"  Magnificent !  "  cried  the  Baron.  "  I  always 
experience  something  of  the  same  feeling, 
when  I  walk  through  a  conservatory.  The 
luxuriant  plants  of  the  tropics  —  those  illus 
trious  exotics,  with  their  gorgeous  flamingo- 


i  10  Hyperion 

colored  blossoms,  and  great  flapping  leaves, 
like  elephants'  ears  —  have  a  singular  work 
ing  upon  my  imagination,  and  remind  me 
of  a  menagerie  and  wild  beasts  kept  in  cages. 
But  your  illustration  is  finer;  —  indeed,  a 
grand  figure.  Put  it  down  for  an  epic  poem." 


A  Romance  1 1 1 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A   Beer-Scandal 

ON  their  way  homeward,  Flemming  and 
the  Baron  passed  through  a  narrow  lane, 
in  which  was  a  well-known  Studenten-Kneipe. 
At  the  door  stood  a  young  man,  whom  the 
Baron  at  once  recognized  as  his  friend  Von 
Kleist.  He  was  a  student ;  and  universally 
acknowledged,  among  his  young  acquaintance, 
as  a  "  devilish  handsome  fellow,"  notwith 
standing  a  tremendous  scar  on  his  cheek,  and 
a  cream-colored  mustache  as  soft  as  the  silk 
of  Indian  corn.  In  short,  he  was  a  renowner, 
and  a  duellist. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Von  Kleist  ? " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Baron  !  Is  it  you  ?  Come 
in  ;  come  in.  You  shall  see  some  sport.  A 
Fox-Commerce  is  on  foot,  and  a  regular  Beer- 
Scandal." 

"  Shall  we  go  in,  Flemming  ? " 

"  Certainly.  I  should  like  to  see  how  these 
things  are  managed  in  Heidelberg.  You  are 


1 1 2  Hyperion 

a  baron,  and  I  am  a  stranger.  It  is  of  no 
consequence  what  you  and  I  do,  as  the  king's 
fool  Angeli  said  to  the  poet  Bautru,  urging 
him  to  put  on  his  hat  at  the  royal  dinner- 
table." 

William  Lilly,  the  Astrologer,  says,  in  his 
Autobiography,  that,  when  he  was  committed 
to  the  guard-room  in  Whitehall,  he  thought 
himself  in  hell ;  for  "  some  were  sleeping,  oth 
ers  swearing,  others  smoking  tobacco ;  and 
in  the  chimney  of  the  room  there  were  two 
bushels  of  broken  tobacco-pipes,  and  almost 
half  a  load  of  ashes."  What  he  would  have 
thought,  if  he  had  peeped  into  this  Heidelberg 
Studenten-Kneipe,  I  know  not.  He  certainly 
would  not  have  thought  himself  in  heaven  ; 
unless  it  were  a  Scandinavian  heaven.  The 
windows  were  open  ;  and  yet  so  dense  was  the 
atmosphere  with  the  smoke  of  tobacco  and  the 
fumes  of  beer,  that  the  tallow  candles  burned 
but  dimly.  A  crowd  of  students  were  sitting 
at  three  long  tables,  in  the  large  hall ;  a  med 
ley  of  fellows,  known  at  German  universities 
under  the  cant  names  of  Old-Ones,  Mossy- 
Heads,  Princes  of  Twilight,  and  Pomatum- 
Stallions.  They  were  smoking,  drinking,  sing 
ing,  screaming,  and  discussing  the  great  Laws 


A  Romance  1 1 3 

of  the  Broad-Stone  and  the  Gutter.  They 
had  a  great  deal  to  say,  likewise,  about  Besens, 
and  Zobels,  and  Poussades  ;  and,  if  they  had 
been  charged  for  the  noise  they  made,  as  trav 
ellers  used  to  be  in  the  old  Dutch  taverns,  they 
would  have  a  longer  bill  to  pay  for  that  than 
for  their  beer. 

In  a  large  arm-chair,  upon  the  middle  table, 
sat  one  of  those  distinguished  individuals 
known  among  German  students  as  a  Senior, 
or  Leader  of  a  Landsmannschaft.  He  was 
booted  and  spurred,  and  wore  a  very  small 
crimson  cap,  and  a  very  tight  blue  jacket,  and 
very  long  hair,  and  a  very  dirty  shirt.  He  was 
President  of  the  night ;  and,  as  Flemming 
entered  the  hall  with  the  Baron  and  his  friend, 
striking  upon  the  table  with  a  mighty  broad 
sword,  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice  :  — 

"  Silentium  ! " 

At  the  same  moment,  a  door  at  the  end  of 
the  hall  was  thrown  open,  and  a  procession  of 
new-comers,  or  Nasty-Foxes,  as  they  are  called 
in  the  college  dialect,  entered  two  by  two, 
looking  wild,  and  green,  and  foolish.  As  they 
came  forward,  they  were  obliged  to  pass  under 
a  pair  of  naked  swords,  held  crosswise  by  two 
Old-Ones,  who,  with  pieces  of  burnt  cork,  made 


I 14  Hyperion 

an  enormous  pair  of  mustaches  on  the  smooth 
rosy  cheeks  of  each,  as  he  passed  beneath  this 
arch  of  triumph.  While  the  procession  was 
entering  the  hall,  the  President  lifted  up  his 
voice  again,  and  began  to  sing  the  well-known 
Fox-song,  in  the  chorus  of  which  all  present 
joined  lustily. 

What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 
What  comes  there  from  the  leathery  hill? 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Leathery  hill  ! 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill ': 

It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  leathery  postilion  ! 

Sa !  Sa ! 

Postilion  ! 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 

What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  leathery  postilion  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Postilion  ! 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 

He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  leathery  Fox  I 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Leathery  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 


A  Romance  1 1 5 


Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 
Your  servant,  much-honored  Masters  mine  ! 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  ! 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Papa? 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Papa  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Herr  Papa  ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 

He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  leathery  Cicero  ! 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 

How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Frau  Mamma  ? 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Frau  Mamma  ! 
flow  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 

She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  leathery  tea  ! 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Leathery  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  .' 


1 1 6  Hyperion 


How  does  the  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 
How  does  the  Mamsell  Sceur  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Mamsell  Sceur  ! 
How  does  the  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 

She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 
See  knits  the  Papa  leathery  socks  I 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Leathery  socks  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 

How  does  the  Ilerr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Rector  ? 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Herr  Rector  ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 

He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  leathery  Boy  ! 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Leathery  Boy  ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 

And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ! 
And  smokes  the  leathery  Fox  tobacco  ! 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Fox  tobacco  ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  I 


A  Romance  1 1 7 

A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  much-honored  Masters  mine  ! 

Sa  !  Sa  ! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  masters  mine  ! 

Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  leathery  pipe  ! 

Sa  !   Sa  ! 

Leathery  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 

O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  sick  ! 
O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  sick  ! 
O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  leathery  sick  \ 

Sa  !   Sa  ! 

Leathery  sick  ! 
O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  sick  ! 

Then  let  him  throw  it  off ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off  ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  leathery  off .' 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Leathery  off ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off ! 

Now  I  again  am  well  ! 
Now  I  again  am  well  ! 
Now  I  again  am  leathery  well  I 

Sa  !   Sa  ! 

Leathery  well  ! 
Now  I  again  am  well  1 


1 1 8  Hyperion 

So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grows  the  leathery  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 

Sa  !   Sa  ! 

Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grou-s  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 

At  length  the  song  was  finished.  Mean 
while  large  tufts  and  strips  of  paper  had  been 
twisted  into  the  hair  of  the  Branders,  as  those 
are  called  who  have  been  already  one  term  at 
the  University,  and  then  at  a  given  signal  were 
set  on  fire,  and  the  Branders  rode  round  the 
table  on  chairs  amid  roars  of  laughter.  When 
this  ceremony  was  completed,  the  President 
rose  and  in  a  solemn  voice  pronounced  a  long 
discourse,  in  which  old  college  jokes  were  min 
gled  with  much  parental  advice  to  young  men 
on  entering  life,  and  the  whole  was  profusely 
garnished  with  select  passages  from  the  Old 
Testament.  Then  they  all  seated  themselves 
at  the  table  and  the  heavy  beer-drinking  set  in, 
as  among  the  Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  old 
Northern  mythology. 

"  Brander  !  Brander  !  "  screamed  a  youth 
whose  face  was  hot  and  flushed  with  supper 
and  with  beer  ;  "  Brander,  I  say  !  Thou  art  a 
Doctor  !  No,  —  a  Pope  ;  —  thou  art  a  Pope, 
by-!" 


A   Romance  1 1 9 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  pale,  quiet- 
looking  person,  who  sat  opposite,  and  was  busy 
in  making  a  wretched  shaved  poodle  sit  on  his 
hind  legs  in  a  chair,  by  his  master's  side,  and 
hold  a  short  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  —  a  per 
formance  to  which  the  poodle  seemed  nowise 
inclined. 

"  Thou  art  challenged  !  "  replied  the  pale  stu 
dent,  turning  from  his  dog,  who  dropped  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  leaped  under  the 
table. 

Seconds  were  chosen  on  the  spot  ;  and 
the  arms  ordered  ;  namely,  six  mighty  gob 
lets,  or  Bassglaser,  filled  to  the  brim  with 
foaming  beer.  Three  were  placed  before  each 
duellist. 

"  Take  your  weapons  !  "  cried  one  of  the  sec 
onds,  and  each  of  the  combatants  seized  a  gob 
let  in  his  hand. 

"  Strike ! " 

And  the  glasses  rang,  with  a  salutation  like 
the  crossing  of  swords. 

"  Set  to  !  " 

Each  set  the  goblet  to  his  lips. 

"  Out ! " 

And  each  poured  the  contents  down  his 
throat,  as  if  he  were  pouring  them  through  a 


1 20  Hyperion 

tunnel  into  a  beer-barrel.  The  other  two 
glasses  followed  in  quick  succession,  hardly  a 
long  breath  drawn  between.  The  pale  stu 
dent  was  victorious.  He  was  first  to  drain 
the  third  goblet.  He  held  it  for  a  moment 
inverted,  to  let  the  last  drops  fall  out,  and 
then,  placing  it  quietly  on  the  table,  looked 
his  antagonist  in  the  face,  and  said  :  — 

"  Hit ! " 

Then,  with  the  greatest  coolness,  looking 
under  the  table,  he  whistled  for  his  dog.  His 
antagonist  stopped  midway  in  his  third  glass. 
Every  vein  in  his  forehead  seemed  bursting  ; 
his  eyes  were  wild  and  bloodshot,  his  hand 
gradually  loosened  its  hold  upon  the  table,  and 
he  sank  and  rolled  together  like  a  sheet  of  lead. 
He  was  drunk. 

At  this  moment  a  majestic  figure  came  stalk 
ing  down  the  table,  ghost-like,  through  the 
dim,  smoky  atmosphere.  His  coat  was  off,  his 
neck  bare,  his  hair  wild,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
and  looking  straight  before  him,  as  if  he  saw 
some  beckoning  hand  in  the  air,  that  others 
could  not  see.  His  left  hand  was  upon  his  hip, 
and  in  his  right  he  held  a  drawn  sword  ex 
tended,  and  pointing  downward.  Regardless 
of  every  one,  erect,  and  with  a  martial  stride,  he 


A  Romance  1 2 1 

marched  directly  along  the  centre  of  the  table, 
crushing  glasses  and  overthrowing  bottles  at 
every  step.  The  students  shrank  back  at  his 
approach  ;  till  at  length  one  more  intoxicated, 
or  more  courageous,  than  the  rest,  dashed  a 
glass  full  of  beer  into  his  face.  A  general 
tumult  ensued,  and  the  student  with  the  sword 
leaped  to  the  floor.  It  was  Von  Kleist.  He 
was  renowning  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  uproar 
could  be  distinguished  the  offensive  words  :  — 

"  Arrogant !  Absurd  !  Impertinent !  Dum- 
mer  Junge  ! " 

Von  Kleist  went  home  that  night  with  no 
less  than  six  duels  on  his  hands.  He  fought 
them  all  out  in  as  many  days  ;  and  came  off 
with  only  a  gash  through  his  upper  lip  and 
another  through  his  right  eyelid  from  a  dex 
terous  Suabian  Schlager. 


122  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    V. 

The  White  Lady's  Slipper  and  the  Pas 
sion-Flower 

'  I  ^HAT  night  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to 
-^  her  chamber  with  a  heavy  heart,  and 
her  dusky  eyes  were  troubled  with  tears.  She 
was  one  of  those  gentle  beings  who  seem  cre 
ated  only  to  love  and  to  be  loved.  A  shade 
of  melancholy  softened  her  character.  She 
shunned  the  glare  of  daylight  and  of  society, 
and  wished  to  be  alone.  Like  the  evening 
primrose,  her  heart  opened  only  after  sun 
set  ;  but  bloomed  through  the  dark  night  with 
sweet  fragrance.  Her  mother,  on  the  contrary, 
flaunted  in  the  garish  light  of  society.  There 
was  no  sympathy  between  them.  Their  souls 
never  approached,  never  understood  each  other, 
and  words  were  often  spoken  which  wounded 
deeply.  And  therefore  Emma  of  Ilmenau 
went  to  her  chamber  that  night  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

She  was  followed  by  her  French  chamber 
maid,  Madeleine,  a  native  of  Strasburg,  who 


A  Romance  123 

had  grown  old  in  the  family.  In  her  youth, 
she  had  been  poor,  —  and  virtuous,  because 
she  had  never  been  tempted  ;  and  now  that 
she  had  grown  old,  and  seen  no  immediate 
reward  for  her  virtue,  as  is  usual  with  weak 
minds,  she  despaired  of  Providence,  and  re 
gretted  she  had  never  been  tempted.  Whilst 
this  unfortunate  personage  was  lighting  the 
wax  tapers  on  the  toilet,  and  drawing  the  bed- 
curtains,  and  tattling  about  the  room,  Emma 
threw  herself  into  an  arm-chair,  and,  crossing 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  letting  her  head  fall 
upon  her  bosom,  seemed  lost  in  a  dream. 

"  Why  have  these  gentle  feelings  been  given 
me  ? "  said  she  in  her  heart.  "  Why  have  I 
been  born  with  all  these  warm  affections,  these 
ardent  longings  after  what  is  good,  if  they 
lead  only  to  sorrow  and  disappointment  ?  I 
would  love  some  one,  —  love  him  once  and 
for  ever  ;  —  devote  myself  to  him  alone,  — 
live  for  him,  —  die  for  him,  —  exist  alone  in 
him  !  But,  alas  !  in  all  this  wide  world  there 
is  none  to  love  me  as  I  would  be  loved, — 
none  whom  I  may  love  as  I  am  capable  of 
loving.  How  empty,  how  desolate,  seems  the 
world  about  me !  Why  has  Heaven  given 
me  these  affections,  only  to  fall  and  fade  ?  " 


1 24  Hyperion 

Alas  !  poor  child  !  thou  too  must  learn,  like 
others,  that  the  sublime  mystery  of  Providence 
goes  on  in  silence,  and  gives  no  explanation 
of  itself,  —  no  answer  to  our  impatient  ques 
tionings  ! 

"  Bless  me,  child,  what  ails  you  ? "  exclaimed 
Madeleine,  perceiving  that  Emma  paid  no 
attention  to  her  idle  gossip.  "  When  I  was  of 

your  age " 

^Do  not  talk  to  me  now,  good  Madeleine. 
Leave  me,  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"Well,  here  is  something,"  continued  the 
maid,  taking  a  billet  from  her  bosom,  "  which 
I  hope  will  enliven  you.  When  I  was  of  your 

age " 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  said  Emma,  taking  the 
billet  from  the  hard  hand  of  Madeleine. 
"  Once  more  I  beg  you,  leave  me.  I  wish  to 
be  alone." 

Madeleine  took  the  lamp  and  retired  slowly, 
wishing  her  young  mistress  many  good  nights 
and  rosy  dreams.  Emma  broke  the  seal  of  the 
note.  As  she  read,  her  face  became  deadly 
pale,  and  then,  quick  as  thought,  a  crimson 
blush  gleamed  on  her  cheek,  and  her  hands 
trembled.  Tenderness,  pity,  love,  offended 
pride,  the  weakness  and  dignity  of  woman, 


A  Romance  125 

were  all  mingled  in  her  look,  changing  and 
passing  over  her  fine  countenance  like  cloud- 
shadows.  She  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  cover 
ing  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  she  would 
hide  it  from  herself  and  Heaven. 

"  He  loves  me  !  "  said  she  to  herself ;  "  loves 
me  ;  and  is  married  to  another,  whom  he 
loves  not !  and  dares  to  tell  me  this !  O 
never,  —  never,  —  never  !  And  yet  he  is  so 
friendless  and  alone  in  this  unsympathizing 
world,  —  and  an  exile,  and  homeless  !  I  can 
but  pity  him  ;  —  yet  I  hate  him,  and  will  see 
him  no  more  !  " 

This  short  reverie  of  love  and  hate  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  a  clear,  mellow  voice, 
which,  in  the  universal  stillness  of  the  hour, 
seemed  almost  like  the  voice  of  a  spirit.  It 
was  a  voice,  without  the  accompaniment  of 
any  instrument,  singing  those  beautiful  lines 
which  Goethe  wrote  on  the  wall  of  a  summer- 
house  at  Ilmenau :  — 

"  O'er  all  the  hill-tops  is  quiet  now  ! 
In  all  the  woodlands  hearest  thou 

Hardly  a  sound  ! 

The  little  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees ; 
Wait !  wait '  and  soon,  like  these, 

Sleepest  thou  J  " 


726  Hyperion 

Emma  knew  the  voice,  and  started.  She 
rushed  to  the  window  to  close  it.  It  was  a 
beautiful  night,  and  the  stars  were  shining 
peacefully  over  the  mountain  of  All-Saints. 
The  sound  of  the  Neckar  was  soft  and  low ; 
nightingales  were  singing  among  the  brown 
shadows  of  the  woods  ;  the  large  red  moon 
shone  like  a  ruby,  in  the  horizon's  ample  ring; 
and  golden  threads  of  light  seemed  braided 
together  with  the  rippling  current  of  the  river. 
Tall  and  spectral  stood  the  white  statues  on 
the  bridge.  The  outlines  of  the  hills,  the  cas 
tle,  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  the  spires 
and  roofs  of  the  town,  were  as  strongly  marked 
as  if  cut  out  of  pasteboard.  Amid  this  fairy 
scene,  a  little  boat  was  floating  silently  down 
the  stream.  Emma  closed  the  window  hastily, 
and  drew  the  curtains  close. 

"  I  hate  him  ;  and  yet  I  will  pray  for  him," 
said  she,  as  she  laid  her  weary  head  upon  that 
pillow,  from  which,  but  a  few  months  before, 
she  thought  she  should  never  raise  it  again. 
"  O  that  I  had  died  then !  I  dare  not  love  him, 
but  I  will  pray  for  him  !  " 

Sweet  child !  If  the  face  of  the  deceiver 
comes  so  often  between  thee  and  Heaven,  I 
tremble  for  thy  fate !  The  plant  that  sprang 


A  Romance  127 

from  Helen's  tears  destroyed  serpents ;  — 
would  that  from  thine  might  spring  up  heart' s- 
ease,  —  some  plant,  at  least,  to  destroy  the  ser 
pents  in  thy  bosom  !  Believe  me,  upon  the 
margin  of  celestial  streams  alone  those  simples 
grow  which  cure  the  heart-ache  ! 

And  this  the  silent  stars  beheld,  looking 
down  from  heaven,  and  told  it  not  again. 
This  likewise  the  Frau  Himmelauen  beheld, 
looking  from  her  chamber-window,  and  was 
not  so  discreet  as  the  silent  stars. 


128  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Glimpses  into  C loud-Land 

"r  I  ^HERE  are  many  things,  which,  hav- 
J-  ing  no  corporeal  evidence,  can  be  per 
ceived  and  comprehended  only  by  the  discur 
sive  energies  of  reason.  Hence  the  ambiguous 
nature  of  matter  can  be  comprehended  only  by 
adulterated  opinion.  Matter  is  the  principle 
of  all  bodies,  and  is  stamped  with  the  impres 
sion  of  forms.  Fire,  air,  and  water  derive 
their  origin  and  principle  from  the  scalene  tri 
angle.  But  the  earth  was  created  from  right- 
angled  triangles,  of  which  two  of  the  sides  are 
equal.  The  sphere  and  the  pyramid  contain 
in  themselves  the  figure  of  fire  ;  but  the  octa 
hedron  was  destined  to  be  the  figure  of  air,  and 
the  icosahedron  of  water.  The  right-angled 
isosceles  triangle  produces  from  itself  a  square, 
and  the  square  generates  from  itself  the  cube, 
which  is  the  figure  peculiar  to  earth.  But  the 
figure  of  a  beautiful  and  perfect  sphere  was 
imparted  to  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect 


A  Romance  129 

world,  that  it  might  be  indigent  of  nothing, 
but  contain  all  things,  embracing  and  compre 
hending  them  in  itself,  and  thus  might  be 
excellent  and  admirable,  similar  to  and  in  con 
cord  with  itself,  ever  moving  musically  and 
melodiously.  If  I  use  a  novel  language,  ex 
cuse  me.  As  Apuleius  says,  pardon  must  be 
granted  to  novelty  of  words,  when  it  serves  to 
illustrate  the  obscurity  of  things." 

These  words  came  from  the  lips  of  the  lion- 
like  philosopher  who  has  been  noticed  before 
in  these  pages.  He  was  sitting  with  Flem- 
ming,  smoking  a  long  pipe.  As  the  Baron 
said,  he  was  indeed  a  strange  owl ;  for  the  owl 
is  a  grave  bird  ;  a  monk,  who  chants  midnight 
mass  in  the  great  temple  of  Nature  ;  —  an  an 
chorite, —  a  pillar  saint,  —  the  very  Simeon 
Stylites  of  his  neighborhood.  Such,  likewise, 
was  the  philosophical  Professor.  Solitary,  but 
with  a  mighty  current,  flowed  the  river  of  his 
life,  like  the  Nile,  without  a  tributary  stream, 
and  making  fertile  only  a  single  strip  in  the 
vast  desert.  His  temperament  had  been  in 
youth  a  joyous  one  ;  and  now,  amid  all  his 
sorrows  and  privations,  —  for  he  had  many, — 
he  looked  upon  the  world  as  a  glad,  bright, 
glorious  world.  On  the  many  joys  of  life  he 
6*  r 


1 30  Hyperion 

gazed  still  with  the  eyes  of  childhood,  from  the 
far-gone  Past  upward,  trusting,  hoping;  —  and 
upon  its  sorrows  with  the  eyes  of  age,  from  the 
distant  Future,  downward,  triumphant,  not 
despairing.  He  loved  solitude,  and  silence, 
and  candle-light,  and  the  deep  midnight. 
"  For,"  said  he,  "  if  the  morning  hours  are  the 
wings  of  the  day,  I  only  fold  them  about  me 
to  sleep  more  sweetly  ;  knowing  that,  at  its 
other  extremity,  the  day,  like  the  fowls  of  the 
air,  has  an  epicurean  morsel,  —  a  parson's 
nose  ;  and  on  this  oily  midnight  my  spirit  rev 
els  and  is  glad." 

Such  was  the  Professor,  who  had  been  talk 
ing  in  a  half-intelligible  strain  for  two  hours 
or  more.  The  Baron  had  fallen  fast  asleep  in 
his  chair ;  but  Flemming  sat  listening  with 
excited  imagination,  and  the  Professor  con 
tinued  in  the  following  words,  which,  to  the 
best  of  his  listener's  memory,  seemed  gleaned 
here  and  there  from  Fichte's  Destiny  of 
Man,  and  Schubert's  History  of  the  Soul. 

"  Life  is  one  and  universal ;  its  forms  many 
and  individual.  Throughout  this  beautiful  and 
wonderful  creation  there  is  never-ceasing  mo 
tion,  without  rest  by  night  or  day,  ever  weav 
ing  to  and  fro.  Swifter  than  a  weaver's  shut- 


A  Romance  \  3  r 

tie  it  flies  from  Birth  to  Death,  from  Death  to 
Birth  ;  from  the  beginning  seeks  the  end,  and 
finds  it  not,  for  the  seeming  end  is  only  a  dim 
beginning  of  a  new  out-going  and  endeavor 
after  the  end.  As  the  ice  upon  the  mountain, 
when  the  warm  breath  of  the  summer  sun 
breathes  upon  it,  melts,  and  divides  into  drops, 
each  of  which  reflects  an  image  of  the  sun ; 
so  life,  in  the  smile  of  God's  love,  divides  itself 
into  separate  forms,  each  bearing  in  it  and 
reflecting  an  image  of  God's  love.  Of  all 
these  forms  the  highest  and  most  perfect  in  its 
God-likeness  is  the  human  soul.  The  vast 
cathedral  of  Nature  is  full  of  holy  scriptures, 
and  shapes  of  deep,  mysterious  meaning ;  but 
all  is  solitary  and  silent  there  ;  no  bending 
knee,  no  uplifted  eye,  no  lip  adoring,  praying. 
Into  this  vast  cathedral  comes  the  human  soul, 
seeking  its  Creator  ;  and  the  universal  silence 
is  changed  to  sound,  and  the  sound  is  harmo 
nious,  and  has  a  meaning,  and  is  compre 
hended  and  felt.  It  was  an  ancient  saying  of 
the  Persians,  that  the  waters  rush  from  the 
mountains  and  hurry  forth  into  all  the  lands 
to  find  the  Lord  of  the  Earth  ;  and  the  flame 
of  the  fire,  when  it  awakes,  gazes  no  more  up 
on  the  ground,  but  mounts  heavenward,  to  seek 


132  Hyperion 

the  Lord  of  Heaven  ;  and  here  and  there  the 
Earth  has  built  the  great  watch-towers  of  the 
mountains,  and  they  lift  their  heads  far  up 
into  the  sky,  and  gaze  ever  upward  and  around, 
to  see  if  the  Judge  of  the  World  comes  not! 
Thus  in  Nature  herself,  without  man,  there  lies 
a  waiting  and  hoping,  a  looking  and  yearning, 
after  an  unknown  somewhat.  Yes ;  when, 
above  there,  where  the  mountain  lifts  its  head 
over  all  others,  that  it  may  be  alone  with  the 
clouds  and  storms  of  heaven,  the  lonely  eagle 
looks  forth  into  the  gray  dawn,  to  see  if  the 
day  comes  not ;  when,  by  the  mountain  tor 
rent,  the  brooding  raven  listens  to  hear  if  the 
chamois  is  returning  from  his  nightly  pasture 
in  the  valley  ;  and  when  the  soon  uprising  sun 
calls  out  the  spicy  odors  of  the  thousand 
flowers,  the  Alpine  flowers,  with  heaven's  deep 
blue  and  the  blush  of  sunset  on  their  leaves  ;  — 
then  there  awake  in  Nature,  and  the  soul  of 
man  can  see  and  comprehend  them,  an  expec 
tation  and  a  longing  for  a  future  revelation 
of  God's  majesty.  They  awake,  also,  when,  in 
the  fulness  of  life,  field  and  forest  rest  at  noon, 
and  through  the  stillness  are  heard  only  the 
song  of  the  grasshopper  and  the  hum  of  the 
bee  ;  and  when  at  evening  the  singing  lark  up 


A  Romance  133 

from  the  sweet-smelling  vineyards  rises,  or  in 
the  later  hours  of  night  Orion  puts  on  his  shin 
ing  armor,  to  walk  forth  into  the  fields  of  heav-- 
en.  But  in  the  soul  of  man  alone  is  this  long 
ing  changed  to  certainty,  and  fulfilled.  For, 
lo !  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  stars  shines 
through  the  air,  and  is  nowhere  visible  and 
seen  ;  the  planets  hasten  with  more  than  the 
speed  of  the  storm  through  infinite  space,  and 
their  footsteps  are  not  heard  ;  but  where  the 
sunlight  strikes  the  firm  surface  of  the  planets, 
where  the  storm-wind  smites  the  wall  of  the 
mountain  cliff,  there  is  the  one  seen  and  the 
other  heard.  Thus  is  the  glory  of  God  mads 
visible,  and  may  be  seen,  where  in  the  soul  of 
man  it  meets  its  likeness  changeless  and  stead 
fast.  Thus,  then,  stands  Man  ;  —  a  mountain 
on  the  boundary  between  two  worlds  ;  —  its 
foot  in  one,  its  summit  far-rising  into  the  other. 
From  this  summit  the  manifold  landscape  of 
life  is  visible,  the  way  of  the  Past  and  Perish 
able,  which  we  have  left  behind  us ;  and  as  we 
evermore  ascend,  bright  glimpses  of  the  day^ 
break  of  Eternity  beyond  us  ! " 

Flemming  would  fain  have  interrupted  this 
discourse  at  times,  to  answer  and  inquire  ;  but 
the  Professor  went  on,  warming  and  glowing 


1 34  Hyperion 


more  and  more.  At  length  there  was  a  short 
pause,  and  Flemming  said  :  — 

"  All  these  indefinite  longings,  these  yearn 
ings  after  an  unknown  somewhat,  I  have  felt 
and  still  feel  within  me  ;  but  not  yet  their  ful 
filment." 

"That  is  because  you  have  not  faith,"  an 
swered  the  Professor.  "The  Present  is  an  age 
of  doubt,  and  disbelief,  and  darkness  ;  out  of 
which  shall  arise  a  clear  and  bright  Hereafter. 
In  the  second  part  of  Goethe's  Faust,  there  is 
a  grand  and  striking  scene,  where  in  the  classi 
cal  Walpurgis  Night,  on  the  Pharsalian  Plains, 
the  mocking  Mephistopheles  sits  down  between 
the  solemn  antique  Sphinxes,  and  boldly  ques 
tions  them,  and  reads  their  riddles.  The  red 
light  of  innumerable  watch-fires  glares  round 
about,  and  shines  upon  the  terrible  face  of  the 
arch-scoffer ;  while  on  either  side,  severe,  ma 
jestic,  solemnly  serene,  we  behold  the  gigantic 
forms  of  the  children  of  Chimaera,  half  buried 
in  the  sand,  their  mild  eyes  gazing  fixedly,  as 
if  they  heard  through  the  midnight  the  swift- 
rushing  wings  of  the  Stymphalides,  striving  to 
outstrip  the  speed  of  Alcides'  arrows  !  Angry 
Griffins  are  near  them ;  and  not  far  are  Sirens, 
singing  their  wondrous  songs  from  the  rocking 


A  Romance  135 

branches  of  the  willow-trees  !  Even  thus  does 
a  scoffing  and  unbelieving  Present  sit  down 
between  an  unknown  Future  and  a  too  believ 
ing  Past,  and  question  and  challenge  the  gi 
gantic  forms  of  Faith,  half  buried  in  the  sands 
of  Time,  and  gazing  forward  steadfastly  into 
the  night,  whilst  sounds  of  anger  and  voices 
of  delight  alternate  vex  and  soothe  the  ear 
of  man  !  —  But  the  time  will  come  when  the 
soul  of  man  shall  return  again  childlike  and 
trustful  to  its  faith  in  God,  and  look  God  in 
the  face  and  die ;  for  it  is  an  old  saying,  full  of 
deep,  mysterious  meaning,  that  he  must  die 
who  hath  looked  upon  a  God.  And  this  is 
the  fate  of  the  soul,  that  it  should  die  contin 
ually.  No  sooner  here  on  earth  does  it  awake 
to  its  peculiar  being,  than  it  struggles  to  be 
hold  and  comprehend  the  Spirit  of  Life.  In 
the  first  dim  twilight  of  its  existence,  it  beholds 
this  spirit,  is  pervaded  by  its  energies,  —  is 
quick  and  creative  like  the  spirit  itself,  and  yet 
slumbers  away  into  death  after  having  seen  it. 
But  the  image  it  has  seen  remains  ;  in  the 
eternal  procreation,  as  a  homogeneal  existence, 
is  again  renewed ;  and  the  seeming  death, 
from  moment  to  moment,  becomes  the  source 
of  kind  after  kind  of  existences  in  ever-ascend- 


J  36  Hyperion 

ing  series.  The  soul  aspires  ever  onward  to 
love  and  to  behold.  It  sees  the  image  more 
perfect  in  the  brightening  twilight  of  the  dawn, 
in  the  ever  higher-rising  sun.  It  sleeps  again, 
dying  in  the  clearer  vision ;  but  the  image 
seen  remains  as  a  permanent  kind  ;  and  the 
slumberer  awakes  anew  and  ever  higher  after 
its  own  image,  till  at  length,  in  the  full  blaze 
of  noonday,  a  being  comes  forth,  which,  like 
the  eagle,  can  behold  the  sun  and  die  not. 
Then  both  live  on,  even  when  this  bodily 
element,  the  mist  and  vapor  through  which 
the  young  eagle  gazed,  dissolves  and  falls  to 
earth." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said 
Flemming ;  "  but  if  I  do,  you  mean  to  say, 
that,  as  the  body  continually  changes  and  takes 
unto  itself  new  properties,  and  is  not  the  same 
to-day  as  yesterday,  so  likewise  the  soul  lays 
aside  its  idiosyncrasies,  and  is  changed  by  ac 
quiring  new  powers,  and  thus  may  be  said  to 
die.  And  hence,  properly  speaking,  the  soul 
lives  always  in  the  Present,  and  has,  and  can 
have,  no  Future  ;  for  the  Future  becomes  the 
Present,  and  the  soul  that  then  lives  in  me  is 
a  higher  and  more  perfect  soul ;  and  so  on- 
ward  for  evermore  '* 


A   Romance  137 

"  1  mean  what  I  say,"  continued  the  Profes 
sor  ;  "  and  can  find  no  more  appropriate  lan 
guage  to  express  my  meaning  than  that  which 
I  have  used.  But,  as  I  said  before,  pardon 
must  be  granted  to  the  novelty  of  words,  when 
it  serves  to  illustrate  the  obscurity  of  things. 
And  I  think  you  will  see  clearly  from  what  I 
have  said,  that  this  earthly  life,  when  seen 
hereafter  from  heaven,  will  seem  like  an  hour 
passed  long  ago,  and  dimly  remembered  ;  — 
that  long,  laborious,  full  of  joys  and  sorrows 
as  it  is,  it  will  then  have  dwindled  down  to  a 
mere  point,  hardly  visible  to  the  far-reaching 
ken  of  the  disembodied  spirit.  But  the  spiric 
itself  soars  onward.  And  thus  death  is  neither 
an  end  nor  a  beginning.  It  is  a  transition, 
not  from  one  existence  to  another,  but  from 
one  state  of  existence  to  another.  No  link  is 
broken  in  the  chain  of  being  ;  any  more  than 
in  passing  from  infancy  to  manhood,  from  man 
hood  to  old  age.  There  are  seasons  of  reverie 
and  deep  abstraction,  which  seem  to  me  analo 
gous  to  death.  The  soul  gradually  loses  its 
consciousness  of  what  is  passing  around  it  ; 
and  takes  no  longer  cognizance  of  objects 
which  are  near.  It  seems  for  the  moment  to 
have  dissolved  its  connection  with  the  body. 


138  Hyperion 

It  has  passed,  as  it  were,  into  another  state  of 
being.  It  lives  in  another  world.  It  has 
flown  over  lands  and  seas  ;  and  holds  com 
munion  with  those  it  loves,  in  distant  regions 
of  the  earth,  and  the  more  distant  heaven.  It- 
sees  familiar  faces,  and  hears  beloved  voices, 
which  to  the  bodily  senses  are  no  longer  visi 
ble  and  audible.  And  this  likewise  is  death  ; 
save  that,  when  we  die,  the  soul  returns  no 
more  to  the  dwelling  it  has  left." 

u  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted,"  inter 
rupted  Flemming,  "  that,  in  our  reveries,  the 
soul  really  goes  out  of  the  body  into  distant 
places,  instead  of  summoning  up  their  sem 
blance  within  itself  by  the  power  of  memory 
and  imagination." 

"  Something  I  must  take  for  granted,"  re 
plied  the  Professor.  "We  will  not  discuss  that 
point  now.  I  speak  not  without  forethought. 
Just  observe  what  a  glorious  thing  human  life 
is,  when  seen  in  this  light ;  and  how  glorious 
man's  destiny.  I  am  ;  thou  art  ;  he  is  !  seems 
but  a  school-boy's  conjugation.  But  therein 
lies  a  mysterious  meaning.  We  behold  all 
round  about  us  one  vast  union,  in  which  no 
man  can  labor  for  himself,  without  laboring  at 
the  same  time  for  all  otheis  ;  a  glimpse  of 


A    Romance  1 39 

truth,  which,  by  the  universal  harmony  of 
things,  becomes  an  inward  benediction,  and 
lifts  the  soul  mightily  upward.  Still  more  so, 
when  a  man  regards  himself  as  a  necessary 
member  of  this  union.  The  feeling  of  our 
dignity  and  our  power  grows  strong,  when  we 
say  to  ourselves :  My  being  is  not  objectless 
and  in  vain  ;  I  am  a  necessary  link  in  the 
great  chain,  which,  from  the  full  development 
of  consciousness  in  the  first  man,  reaches  for 
ward  into  eternity.  All  the  great  and  wise 
and  good  among  mankind,  all  the  benefactors 
of  the  human  race,  whose  names  I  read  in 
the  world's  history,  and  the  still  greater  num 
ber  of  those  whose  good  deeds  have  outlived 
their  names,  —  all  those  have  labored  for  me. 
I  have  entered  into  their  harvest.  I  walk  the 
green  earth  which  they  inhabited.  I  tread  in 
their  footsteps,  from  which  blessings  grow.  I 
can  undertake  the  sublime  task  which  they 
once  undertook,  the  task  of  making  our  com 
mon  brotherhood  wiser  and  happier.  I  can 
build  forward,  where  they  were  forced  to  leave 
off;  and  bring  nearer  to  perfection  the  great 
edifice  which  they  left  uncompleted.  And  at 
length  I,  too,  must  leave  it,  and  go  hence.  O, 
this  is  the  sublimest  thought  of  all !  I  can 


140  Hyperion 

never  finish  the  noble  task ;  therefore,  so  sure 
as  this  task  is  my  destiny,  I  can  never  cease  to 
work,  and  consequently  never  cease  to  be. 
What  men  call  death  cannot  break  off  this 
task,  which  is  never-ending  ;  consequently  no 
period  is  set  to  my  being,  and  I  am  eternal. 
I  lift  my  head  boldly  to  the  threatening  moun 
tain-peaks,  and  to  the  roaring  cataract,  and 
to  the  storm-clouds  swimming  in  the  fire- 
sea  overhead,  and  say,  —  I  am  eternal  and 
defy  your  power !  Break,  break  over  me  ! 
and  thou  Earth,  and  thou  Heaven  mingle 
in  the  wild  tumult !  and  ye  Elements,  foam 
and  rage,  and  destroy  this  atom  of  dust, 
—  this  body,  which  I  call  mine !  My  will 
alone,  with  its  fixed  purpose,  shall  hover 
brave  and  triumphant  over  the  ruins  of  the 
universe  ;  for  I  have  comprehended  my  des 
tiny  ;  and  it  is  more  durable  than  ye !  It 
is  eternal ;  and  I,  who  recognize  it,  I  likewise 
am  eternal !  Tell  me,  my  friend,  have  you  no 
faith  in  this  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  answered  Flemming,  and  there 
«vas  another  pause.  He  then  said  :  — 

"  I  have  listened  to  you  patiently  and  with 
out  interruption.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  com- 
plain  of  the  scepticism  of  vhe  age.  This  ia 


A  Romance  141 

one  form  in  which  the  philosophic  spirit  of 
the  age  presents  itself.  Let  me  tell  you, 
that  another  form  which  it  assumes  is  that 
of  poetic  reverie.  Plato  of  old  had  dreams 
like  these ;  and  the  Mystics  of  the  Middle 
Ages ;  and  still  their  disciples  walk  in  the 
cloud-land  and  dream-land  of  this  poetic  phi 
losophy.  Pleasant  and  cool  upon  their  souls 
lie  the  shadows  of  the  trees  under  which  Plato 
taught.  From  their  whispering  leaves  comes 
wafted  across  the  noise  of  populous  centuries 
a  solemn  and  mysterious  sound,  which  to  them 
is  the  voice  of  the  Soul  of  the  World.  All 
nature  has  become  spiritualized  and  transfig 
ured  ;  and,  wrapped  in  beautiful,  vague  dreams 
of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  they  live  in  this  green 
world,  like  the  little  child  in  the  German  tale, 
who  sits  by  the  margin  of  a  woodland  lake, 
and  hears  the  blue  heaven  and  the  branches 
overhead  dispute  with  their  reflection  in  the 
water,  which  is  the  reality  and  which  the 
image.  I  willingly  confess  that  such  day 
dreams  as  these  appeal  strongly  to  my  imagi 
nation.  Visitants  and  attendants  are  they  of 
those  lofty  souls,  which,  soaring  ever  higher 
and  higher,  build  themselves  nests  under  the 
very  eaves  of  the  stars,  forgetful  that  they  can- 


142  Hyperion 

not  live  on  air,  but  must  descend  to  earth  for 
food.  Yet  I  recognize  them  as  day-dreams 
only ;  as  shadows,  not  substantial  things. 
What  I  mainly  dislike  in  the  New  Philosophy 
is  the  cool  impertinence  with  which  an  old 
idea  folded  in  a  new  garment  looks  you  in  the 
face  and  pretends  not  to  know  you,  though  you 
have  been  familiar  friends  from  childhood.  I 
remember  an  English  author,  who,  in  speak 
ing  of  your  German  philosophies,  says  very 
wisely :  '  Often  a  proposition  of  inscrutable  and 
dread  aspect,  when  resolutely  grappled  with, 
and  torn  from  its  shady  den,  and  its  bristling 
intrenchments  of  uncouth  terminology,  and 
dragged  forth  into  the  open  light  of  day,  to  be 
seen  by  the  natural  eye  and  tried  by  merely 
human  understanding,  proves  to  be  a  very 
harmless  truth,  familiar  to  us  from  old,  some 
times  so  familiar  as  to  be  a  truism.  Too  fre 
quently  the  anxious  novice  is  reminded  of 
Dryden  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books  ;  there  is  a 
helmet  of  rusty  iron,  dark,  grim,  gigantic  ;  and 
within  it,  at  the  farthest  corner,  is  a  head  no 
bigger  than  a  walnut.'  •. —  Can  you  believe  that 
these  words  ever  came  from  the  pen  of  Thomas 
Carlyle  ?  He  has  himself  taken  up  the  un 
couth  terminology,  of  late  ;  and  many  pure. 


A  Romance  143 

simple  minds  are  much  offended  at  it.  They 
seem  to  take  it  as  a  personal  insult.  They  are 
angry,  and  deny  the  just  meed  of  praise.  It 
is,  however,  hardly  worth  while  to  lose  our 
presence  of  mind.  Let  us  rather  profit  as  we 
may,  even  from  this  spectacle,  and  recognize 
the  monarch  in  his  masquerade.  For,  hooded 
and  wrapped  about  with  that  strange  and  an 
tique  garb,  there  walks  a  kingly,  a  most  royal 
soul,  even  as  the  Emperor  Charles  walked 
amid  solemn  cloisters  under  a  monk's  cowl,  — 
a  monarch  still  in  soul.  Such  things  are  not 
new  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Ever  and 
anon  they  sweep  over  the  earth,  and  blow 
themselves  out  soon  ;  and  then  there  is  quiet 
for  a  season,  and  the  atmosphere  of  Truth 
seems  more  serene.  Why  would  you  preach 
to  the  wind  ?  Why  reason  with  thunder 
storms  ?  Better  sit  quiet,  and  see  them 
pass  over  like  a  pageant,  cloudy,  superb,  and 
vast." 

The  Professor  smiled  self-complacently,  but 
said  not  a  word.  Flemming  continued  :  — 

"  I  will  add  no  more  than  this  ;  —  there  are 
many  speculations  in  literature,  philosophy, 
and  religion,  which,  though  pleasant  to  walk 
in,  and  lying  under  the  shadow  of  great  names, 


^44  Hyperion 

yet  lead  to  no  important  result.  They  resem 
ble  rather  those  roads  in  the  Western  forests 
of  my  native  land,  which,  though  broad  and 
pleasant  at  first,  and  lying  beneath  the  shadow 
of  great  branches,  finally  dwindle  to  a  squirrel 
track,  and  run  up  a  tree!" 

The  Professor  hardly  knew  whether  he 
should  laugh  or  be  offended  at  this  sally  ;  and, 
laying  his  hand  upon  Flemming's  arm,  he  said 
seriously :  — 

"  Believe  me,  my  young  friend,  the  time  will 
come  when  you  will  think  more  wisely  on 
these  things.  And  with  you,  I  trust,  that  time 
will  soon  come  ;  since  it  moves  more  speedily 
with  some  than  with  others.  For  what  is 
Time?  The  shadow  on  the  dial,  —  the  strik 
ing  of  the  clock,  —  the  running  of  the  sand, 
—  day  and  night, — summer  and  winter, — 
months,  years,  centuries;  —  these  are  but 
arbitrary  and  outward  signs,  the  measure  of 
Time,  not  Time  itself.  Time  is  the  Life  of 
the  soul.  If  not  this,  then  tell  me,  what  is 
Time?" 

The  high  and  animated  tone  of  voice  in 
which  the  Professor  uttered  these  words 
aroused  the  Baron  from  his  sleep ;  and,  not 
distinctly  comprehending  what  was  said,  but 


A   Romance  145 

thinking  the  Professor  asked  what  time  it  was, 
he  innocently  exclaimed  :  — 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  near  midnight !  " 
This  somewhat  disconcerted  the  Professor, 
who  took  his  leave  soon  afterward.     When  he 
was  gone,  the  Baron  said  :  — 

"  Excuse  me  for  treating  your  guest  so  cava 
lierly.  His  philosophy  annoyed  me  not  a  lit 
tle  ;  and  I  took  refuge  in  sleep.  One  would 
think,  to  judge  by  the  language  of  this  sect, 
that  they  alone  saw  any  beauty  in  Nature  ; 
and  when  I  hear  one  of  them  discourse,  I  am 
instantly  reminded  of  Goethe's  Baccalaureus, 
when  he  exclaims :  'The  world  was  not,  before 
I  created  it ;  I  brought  the  sun  up  out  of  the 
sea ;  with  me  began  the  changeful  course  of 
the  moon  ;  the  day  decked  itself  on  my  ac 
count  ;  the  earth  grew  green  and  blossomed 
to  meet  me ;  at  my  nod,  in  that  first  night,  the 
pomp  of  all  the  stars  developed  itself;  who 
but  I  set  you  free  from  all  the  bonds  of  Philis- 
ter-like,  contracting  thoughts  ?  I,  however, 
emancipated  as  my  mind  assures  me  I  am, 
gladly  pursue  my  inward  light,  advance  boldly 
in  a  transport  peculiarly  my  own,  the  bright 
before  me,  and  the  dark  behind ! '  —  Do  you  not 
see  a  resemblance  ?  O,  they  might  be  modest 
7  I 


1 46  Hyperion 

enough  to  confess  that  one  straggling  ray 
of  light  may,  by  some  accident,  reach  the 
blind  eyes  of  even  us  poor,  benighted  hea 
then  !  " 

"  Alas !  how  little  veneration  we  have  ! " 
said  Flemming.  "  I  could  not  help  closing 
the  discussion  with  a  jest.  An  ill-timed  levity 
often  takes  me  by  surprise.  On  all  such 
occasions,  I  think  of  a  scene  at  the  University, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  a  grave  discussion  on 
the  possibility  of  Absolute  Motion,  a  scholar 
said  he  had  seen  a  rock  split  open,  from  which 
sprang  a  toad,  who  could  not  be  supposed  to 
have  any  knowledge  of  the  external  world, 
and  consequently  his  motion  must  have  been 
absolute.  The  learned  Professor  who  presid 
ed  on  that  occasion  was  hardly  more  startled 
and  astonished  than  was  our  learned  Profes 
sor,  five  minutes  ago.  But  come  ;  wind  up 
your  watch,  and  let  us  go  to  bed." 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  Baron,  "did  you 
mind  what  a  curious  head  he  has  ?  There  are 
two  crowns  upon  it." 

"That  is  a  sign,"  replied  Flemming,  "that 
he  will  eat  his  bread  in  two  kingdoms." 

"  I  think  the  poor  man  would  be  very  thank 
ful,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  smile,  "  if  he  were 


A  Romance  147 

always  sure  of  eating  it  in  one.  He  is  what 
the  Transcendentalists  call  a  God-intoxicated 
man  ;  and  I  advise  him,  as  Santeul  advised 
Bossuet,  to  go  to  Patmos  and  write  a  new 
Apocalypse." 


148  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Mill-Wheels  and  other  Wheels 

A  FEW  days  after  this,  the  Baron  received 
letters  from   his  sister,  telling  him  that 
her  physicians  had  prescribed  a  few  weeks  at 
the  Baths  of  Ems,  and  urging  him  to  meet  her 
there  before  the  fashionable  season. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  Flemming  ;  "  make  this 
short  journey  with  me.  We  will  pass  a  few 
pleasant  days  at  Ems,  and  visit  the  other  wa 
tering-places  of  Nassau.  It  will  drive  away 
the  melancholy  day-dreams  that  haunt  you. 
Perhaps  some  future  bride  is  even  now  wait 
ing  for  you,  \vi\h  dim  presentiments  and  un^ 
denned  longings,  at  the  Serpent's  Bath." 

"  Or  i:ome  widow  of  Ems,  with  a  cork  leg !" 
said  Flemming,  smiling  ;  and  then  added,  in  a 
tone  of  voice  half  jest,  half  earnest,  "  Certainly ; 
let  us  go  in  pursuit  of  her  :  — 

•  Whoe'er  she  be, 
That  not  impossible  she, 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me : 


A  Romance  149 

*  Where'er  she  lie, 
Hidden  from  mortal  eye, 
In  shady  leaves  of  destiny.'" 

They  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Frankfort, 
pursuing  their  way  slowly  along  the  lovely 
Bergstrasse,  famed  throughout  Germany  for  its 
beauty.  They  passed  the  ruined  house  where 
Martin  Luther  lay  concealed  after  the  Diet  of 
Worms,  and  through  the  village  of  Hand- 
schuhsheimer,  as  old  as  the  days  of  King 
Pepin  the  Short,  —  a  hamlet,  lying  under  the 
hills,  half  buried  in  blossoms  and  green  leaves- 
Close  on  the  right  rose  the  mountains  of  the 
mysterious  Odenwald  ;  and  on  the  left  lay  the 
Neckar,  like  a  steel  bow  in  the  meadow.  Far 
ther  westward,  a  thin,  smoky  vapor  betrayed 
the  course  of  the  Rhine  ;  beyond  which,  like 
a  troubled  sea,  ran  the  blue,  billowy  Alsatian 
hills.  Song  of  birds,  and  sound  of  evening 
bells,  and  fragrance  of  sweet  blossoms,  filled 
the  air ;  and  silent  and  slow  sank  the  broad 
red  sun,  half  hidden  amid  folding  clouds. 

"  We  shall  not  pass  the  night  at  Weinheim," 
said  the  Baron  to  the  postilion,  who  had  dis 
mounted  to  walk  up  the  hill  leading  to  the 
town.  "You  may  drive  to  the  mill  in  the 
valley  of  Birkenau." 


150  Hyperion 

The  postillion  seized  one  of  his  fat  horses 
by  the  tail,  and  swung  himself  up  to  his  seat 
again  They  rattled  over  the  paved  streets 
of  Weinheim,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  host  of 
the  Golden  Eagle,  who  stood  so  invitingly  at 
the  door  of  his  own  inn ;  and  the  ruins  of 
Burg  Windeck,  above  there,  on  its  mountain 
throne,  frowned  at  them  for  hurrying  by,  with 
out  staying  to  do  him  homage. 

"  The  old  ruin  looks  well  from  the  valley," 
said  the  Baron  ;  "  but  let  us  beware  of  climb 
ing  that  steep  hill.  Most  travellers  are  like 
children  ;  they  must  needs  touch  whatever 
they  behold.  They  climb  up  to  every  old 
broken  tooth  of  a  castle  which  they  find  on 
their  way  ;  get  a  toilsome  ascent  and  hot  sun 
shine  for  their  pains,  and  come  down  wearied 
and  disappointed.  I  trust  we  are  wiser." 

They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  turned  up  the 
stream,  passing  under  an  arch  of  stone  which 
serves  as  a  gateway  to  this  enchanted  valley 
of  Birkenau.  A  cool  and  lovely  valley,  shut 
in  by  high  hills  ;  —  shaded  by  alder-trees  and 
tall  poplars,  under  which  rushes  the  Wech- 
snitz,  a  noisy  mountain-brook,  that  ever  and 
anon  puts  its  broad  shoulder  to  the  wheel  of 
a  mill,  and  shows  that  it  can  labor  as  well  as 


A  Romance  151 

faugh.  At  one  of  these  mills  they  stopped  for 
the  night. 

A  mill  forms  as  characteristic  a  feature  in 
the  romantic  German  landscape  as  in  the  ro 
mantic  German  tale.  It  is  not  only  a  mill,  but 
likewise  an  alehouse  and  rural  inn  ;  so  that 
the  associations  it  suggests  are  not  of  labor 
only,  but  also  of  pleasure.  It  stands  in  the 
narrow  defile,  with  its  picturesque  thatched 
roof ;  thither  throng  the  peasants,  of  a  holi 
day  ;  and  there  are  rustic  dances  under  the 
trees. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  fast-approaching  sum 
mer  night,  the  Baron  and  Flemming  walked 
forth  along  the  borders  of  the  stream.  As 
they  heard  it  rushing  and  gushing  among  the 
stones  and  tangled  roots,  and  the  great  wheel 
turning  in  the  current,  with  its  never-ceasing 
plash  !  plash  !  it  brought  to  their  minds  that 
exquisite,  simple  song  of  Goethe,  the  Youth 
and  the  Mill-brook.  It  was  for  the  moment  a 
nymph  which  sang  to  them  in  the  voice  of  the 
waters. 

"  I  am  persuaded,"  said  Flemming,  "that,  in 
order  fully  to  understand  and  feel  the  popular 
poetry  of  Germany,  one  must  be  familiar  with 
the  German  landscape.  Many  sweet  little 


1 5  2  Hyperion 

poems  are  the  outbreaks  of  momentary  feel 
ings  ;  —  words  to  which  the  song  of  birds,  the 
rustling  of  leaves,  and  the  gurgle  of  cool 
waters  form  the  appropriate  music.  Or  per 
haps  I  should  say  they  are  \vords  which  man 
has  composed  to  the  music  of  nature.  Can 
you  not,  even  now,  hear  this  brooklet  telling 
you  how  it  is  on  its  way  to  the  mill,  where  at 
daybreak  the  miller's  daughter  opens  her  win 
dow,  and  comes  down  to  bathe  her  face  in  its 
stream,  and  her  bosom  is  so  full  and  white, 
that  it  kindles  the  glow  of  love  in  the  cool 
waters  ? " 

"A  most  delightful  ballad,  truly,"  said  the 
Baron.  "  But,  like  many  others  of  our  little 
songs,  it  requires  a  poet  to  feel  and  understand 
it.  Sing  them  in  the  valley  and  woodland 
shadows,  and  under  the  leafy  roofs  of  garden 
walks,  and  at  night,  and  alone,  as  they  were 
written.  Sing  them  not  in  the  loud  world, 
—  for  the  loud  world  laughs  such  things  to 
scorn.  It  is  M  tiller  who  says,  in  that  little 
song  where  the  maiden  bids  the  moon  good 


This  song  was  made  to  be  sung  at  night, 
And  he  who  reads  it  in  broad  daylight 
Will  never  read  the  mystery  right ; 
And  yet  it  is  childlike  easy  ! ' 


A   Romance  153 

He  has  written  a  great  many  pretty  songs,  in 
which  the  momentary,  indefinite  longings  and 
impulses  of  the  soul  of  man  find  an  expression. 
He  calls  them  the  Songs  of  a  Wandering 
Horn-player.  There  is  one  among  them  much 
to  our  present  purpose.  He  expresses  in  it  the 
feeling  of  unrest  and  desire  of  motion,  which 
the  sight  and  sound  of  running  waters  often 
produce  in  us.  It  is  entitled,  '  Whither  ? '  and 
is  worth  repeating  to  you. 

'  I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

*  I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave. 

'  Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

5  Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet  ?   say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 
7* 


154  Hyperion 

-  What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

'Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 

The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear.'  " 

"There  you  have  the  poetic  reverie,"  said 
Flemming,  "  and  the  dull  prose  commentary 
and  explanation  in  matter  of  fact.  The  song 
is  pretty  ;  and  was  probably  suggested  by  some 
such  scene  as  this  which  we  are  now  behold 
ing.  Doubtless,  all  your  old  national  traditions 
sprang  up  in  the  popular  mind  as  this  song  in 
the  poet's." 

"  Your  opinion  is  certainly  correct,"  an 
swered  the  Baron  ;  "  and  yet  all  this  play  of 
poetic  fancy  does  not  prevent  me  from  feeling 
the  chill  night-air  and  the  pangs  of  hunger. 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  mill,  and  see  what  our 
landlady  has  for  supper.  Did  you  observe  what 
a  loud,  sharp  voice  she  has  ? " 

"  People  always  have,  who  live  in  mills,  and 
near  waterfalls." 

On  the  following  morning,  they  emerged 
unwillingly  from  the  green,  dark  valley,  and 


A  Romance  155 

journeyed  along  the  level  nignway  to  Frank 
fort,  where  in  the  evening  they  heard  the  glo 
rious  Don  Giovanni  of  Mozart.  Of  all  operas, 
this  was  Flemming's  favorite.  What  raptu 
rous  flights  of  sound  !  what  thrilling,  pathetic 
chimes  !  what  wild,  joyous  revelry  of  passion  i 
what  a  delirium  of  sense  !  what  an  expression 
of  agony  and  woe  !  —  all  the  feelings  of  suffer 
ing  and  rejoicing  humanity  sympathized  with 
and  finding  a  voice  in  those  tones.  Flemming 
and  the  Baron  listened  with  ever  increasing 
delight. 

"  How  wonderful  this  is  ! "  exclaimed  Flem 
ming,  transported  by  his  feelings.  "  How  the 
chorus  swells  and  dies,  like  the  wind  of  sum 
mer  !  How  those  passages  of  mysterious  im 
port  seem  to  wave  to  and  fro,  like  the  swaying 
branches  of  trees  ;  from  which  anon  some  soli 
tary  sweet  voice  darts  off  like  a  bird,  and  floats 
away  and  revels  in  the  bright,  warm  sun 
shine  !  and  then  mark  !  how,  amid  the  chorus 
of  a  hundred  voices  and  a  hundred  instru 
ments,  of  flutes,  and  drums,  and  trumpets,  this 
universal  shout  and  whirlwind  of  the  vexed 
air,  you  can  so  clearly  distinguish  the  melan 
choly  vibration  of  a  single  string,  touched  by 
the  finger, —  a  mournful,  sobbing  sound  !  Ah, 


1 56  Hyperion 

this  is  indeed  human  life  !  where,  in  the  rush> 
ing,  noisy  crowd,  and  amid  sounds  of  gladness, 
and  a  thousand  mingling  emotions,  distinctly 
audible  to  the  ear  of  thought,  are  the  pulsations 
of  some  melancholy  string  of  the  heart,  touched 
by  an  invisible  hand." 

Then  came,  in  the  midst  of  these  excited 
feelings,  the  ballet,  drawing  its  magic  net 
about  the  soul.  And  soon,  from  the  tangled 
yet  harmonious  mazes  of  the  dance,  came 
forth  a  sylph-like  form,  her  scarf  floating  be 
hind  her,  as  if  she  were  fanning  the  air  with 
gauze-like  wings.  Noiseless  as  a  feather  or  a 
snow-flake  falls,  did  her  feet  touch  the  earth. 
She  seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  and  the  floor  to 
bend  and  wave  under  her,  as  a  branch  when 
a  bird  alights  upon  it  and  takes  wing  again. 
Loud  and  rapturous  applause  followed  each 
wonderful  step,  each  voluptuous  movement  ; 
and,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  burning  eye, 
and  bosom  panting  to  be  free,  stood  the  grace 
fully  majestic  figure  for  a  moment  still,  and 
then  the  winged  feet  of  the  swift  dancing-girls 
glanced  round  her,  and  she  was  lost  again  in 
the  throng. 

"  How  truly  exquisite  this  is ! "  exclaimed 
the  Baron,  after  joining  loudly  in  the  applause 


A  Romance  1 5  7 

"  What  a  noble  figure  !  What  grace  !  what 
attitudes  !  How  much  soul  in  every  motion  ! 
how  much  expression  in  every  gesture !  I 
assure  you,  it  produces  upon  me  the  same 
effect  as  a  beautiful  poem.  It  is  a  poem. 
Every  step  is  a  word  ;  and  the  whole  together 
a  poem ! " 

The  Baron  and  Flemming  were  delighted 
with  the  scene  ;  and  at  the  same  time  exceed 
ingly  amused  with  the  countenance  of  an  old 
prude  in  the  next  box,  who  seemed  to  look  up 
on  the  whole  magic  show  with  such  feelings  as 
Michal,  Saul's  daughter,  experienced,  when 
she  looked  from  her  window  and  saw  King 
David  dancing  and  leaping  with  his  scanty 
garments. 

"  After  all," said  Flemming,  "the  old  French 
priest  was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way,  when  he 
said,  in  his  coarse  dialect,  '  The  dance  is  the 
Devil's  procession  ;  and  paint  and  ornaments, 
the  whetting  of  the  Devil's  sword  ;  and  the 
ring  that  is  made  in  dancing,  the  Devil's 
grindstone,  whereon  he  sharpens  his  sword  ; 
and  finally,  —  a  ballet  is  the  pomp  and  mass 
of  the  Devil,  and  whosoever  entereth  therein 
entereth  into  his  pomp  and  mass ;  for  the  wo 
man  who  singeth  is  the  prioress  of  the  Devil, 


158  Hyperion 

and  they  that  answer  are  clerks,  and  they  that 
look  on  are  parishioners,  and  the  cymbals  and 
flutes  are  the  bells,  and  the  musicians  that 
play  are  the  ministers  of  the  Devil.' " 

"  No  doubt,  this  good  lady  near  us  thinks  so 
likewise,"  answered  the  Baron,  laughing  ;  "  but 
she  likes  it  for  all  that." 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  Baron  begged 
Flemming  to  sit  still  till  the  crowd  had  gone. 

"  I  have  a  strange  fancy,"  said  he,  "  when 
ever  I  come  to  the  theatre,  to  see  the  end  of 
all  things.  When  the  crowd  is  gone,  and  the 
curtain  raised  again  to  air  the  house,  and  the 
lamps  are  all  out,  save  here  and  there  one  be 
hind  the  scenes,  the  contrast  with  what  has 
gone  before  is  most  impressive.  Every  thing 
wears  a  dream-like  aspect.  The  empty  boxes 
and  stalls,  the  silence,  the  smoky  twilight,  and 
the  magic  scene  dismantled,  produce  in  me  a 
strange,  mysterious  feeling.  It  is  like  a  dim 
reflection  of  a  theatre  in  water  or  in  a  dusty 
mirror,  and  reminds  me  of  some  of  Hoffmann's 
wild  tales.  It  is  a  practical  moral  lesson,  a 
commentary  on  the  play,  and  makes  the  show 
complete." 

It  was  truly  as  he  said  ;  only  tenfold  more 
desolate,  solemn,  and  impressive ;  and  pro- 


A  Romance  <59 

duced  upon  the  mind  the  effect  we  experience 
when  slumber  is  suddenly  broken,  and  dreams 
and  realities  mingle,  and  we  know  not  yet 
whether  we  sleep  or  wake.  As  they  at  length 
passed  out  through  the  dimly-lighted  passage, 
they  heard  a  vulgar-looking  fellow,  with  a  sen 
sual  face  and  shaggy  whiskers,  say  to  some 
persons  who  were  standing  near  him,  and 
seemed  to  be  hangers-on  of  the  play-house  :  — 

"  I  shall  run  her  six  nights  at  Munich,  and 
then  take  her  on  to  Vienna." 

Flemming  thought  he  was  speaking  of  some 
favorite  horse.  He  was  speaking  of  his  beau 
tiful  wife,  the  ballet-dancer. 


160  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

GoetJte 

WHAT  most  interested  our  travellers  in 
the  ancient  city  of  Frankfort  was 
neither  the  opera,  nor  the  Ariadne  of  Danneck- 
er,  but  the  house  in  which  Goethe  was  born, 
and  the  scenes  he  frequented  in  his  childhood 
and  remembered  in  his  old  age.  Such,  for 
example,  are  the  walks  around  the  city,  outside 
the  moat ;  the  bridge  over  the  Main,  with  the 
golden  cock  on  the  cross,  which  the  poet  be 
held  and  marvelled  at  when  a  boy  ;  the  cloister 
of  the  Barefooted  Friars,  through  which  he 
stole  with  mysterious  awe  to  sit  by  the  oilcloth- 
covered  table  of  old  Rector  Albrecht ;  and  the 
garden  in  which  his  grandfather  walked  up 
and  down  among  fruit-trees  and  rose-bushes, 
in  long  morning-gown,  black  velvet  cap,  and 
the  antique  leather  gloves,  which  he  annu 
ally  received  as  Mayor  on  Pipers-Dooms 
day  representing  a  kind  of  middle  person 
age  between  Alcinous  and  Laertes.  Thus,  O 


A   Romance  \  6 1 

Genius  !  are  thy  footprints  hallowed  ;  and  the 
star  shines  for  ever  over  the  place  of  thy  na 
tivity. 

"  Your  English  critics  may  rail  as  they  list," 
said  the  Baron,  while  he  and  Flemming  were 
returning  from  a  stroll  in  the  leafy  gardens 
oucside  the  moat ;  "  but,  after  all,  Goethe  was 
a  magnificent  old  fellow.  Only  think  of  his 
life  ;  his  youth  of  passion,  alternately  aspiring 
and  desponding,  stormy,  impetuous,  headlong  ; 
—  his  romantic  manhood,  in  which  passion 
assumes  the  form  of  strength  ;  assiduous, 
careful,  toiling,  without  haste,  without  rest ;  — • 
and  his  sublime  old  age,  —  the  age  of  serene 
and  classic  repose,  where  he  stands  like  Atlas,, 
as  Claudian  has  painted  him  in  the  Battle  of 
the  Giants,  holding  the  world  aloft  upon  his 
head,  the  ocean-streams  hard  frozen  in  his 
hoary  locks." 

"  A  good  illustration  of  what  the  world  calls 
his  indifferentism." 

"  And  do  you  know  I  rather  like  this  indif 
ferentism  ?  Did  you  never  have  the  misfortune 
to  live  in  a  community,  where  a  difficulty  in 
the  parish  seemed  to  announce  the  end  of  the 
world  ?  or  to  know  one  of  the  benefactors  of 
tne  human  race,  in  the  very  storm  and  pres- 


:62  Hyperion 

sure  period  of  his  indiscreet  enthusiasm  ?  If 
you  have,  I  think  you  will  see  something 
beautiful  in  the  calm  and  dignified  attitude 
which  the  old  philosopher  assumes." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  his  admirers  had  not  a 
little  of  this  philosophic  coolness.  It  amuses 
me  to  read  the  various  epithets  which  they 
apply  to  him  :  —  The  Dear,  dear  Man  !  The 
Life-enjoying  Man  !  The  All-sided  One ! 
The  Representative  of  Poetry  upon  Earth  ! 
The  Many-sided  Master-Mind  of  Germany  ! 
His  enemies  rush  into  the  other  extreme,  and 
hurl  at  him  the  fierce  names  of  Old  Humbug ! 
and  Old  Heathen  !  which  hit  like  pistol-bul 
lets." 

"  I  confess  he  was  no  saint." 

"  No  ;  his  philosophy  is  the  old  ethnic  phi 
losophy.  You  will  find  it  all  in  a  convenient 
and  concentrated  portable  form  in  Horace's 
beautiful  Ode  to  Thaliarcus.  What  I  most 
object  to  in  the  old  gentleman  is  his  sensu 
ality." 

"  O,  nonsense  !  Nothing  can  be  purer  than 
the  Iphigenia  ;  it  is  as  cold  and  passionless  as 
a  marble  statue." 

"  Very  true  ;  but  you  cannot  say  the  same 
of  some  of  the  Roman  Elegies,  and  of  fhat 
strange  book,  the  Elective  Affinities." 


A   Romance  163 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  Goethe  is  an  artist  ;  and 
looks  upon  all  things  as  objects  of  art  merely. 
Why  should  he  not  be  allowed  to  copy  in 
words  what  painters  and  sculptors  copy  in 
colors  and  in  marble  ?  " 

"  The  artist  shows  his  character  in  the  choice 
of  his  subject.  Goethe  never  sculptured  an 
Apollo,  nor  painted  a  Madonna.  He  gives  us 
only  sinful  Magdalens  and  rampant  Fauns. 
He  does  not  so  much  idealize  as  realize." 

"  He  only  copies  nature." 

"  So  did  the  artists  who  made  the  bronze 
lamps  of  Pompeii.  Would  you  hang  one  of 
those  in  your  hall  ?  To  say  that  a  man  is  an 
artist  and  copies  nature  is  not  enough.  There 
are  two  great  schools  of  art ;  the  imitative  and 
the  imaginative.  The  latter  is  the  most  noble, 
and  the  most  enduring  ;  and  Goethe  belonged 
rather  to  the  former.  Have  you  read  Menzel's 
attack  upon  him,? " 

"It  is  truly  ferocious.  The  Silesian  hews 
into  him  lustily.  I  hope  you  do  not  take  sides 
with  him." 

"  By  no  means.  He  goes  too  far.  He 
blames  the  poet  for  not  being  a  politician. 
He  might  as  well  blame  hin?  for  not  being  a 
missionary  to  the  Sandwich  I^ands." 


1 64  Hyperion 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Eckermann  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  a  kind  of  German  Boswell. 
Goethe  knew  he  was  drawing  his  portrait,  and 
sat  for  it  accordingly.  He  works  very  hard  to 
make  a  Saint  Peter  out  of  an  old  Jupiter,  as 
the  Catholics  did  at  Rome." 

"Well,  call  him  Old  Humbug,  or  Old  Hea 
then,  or  what  you  please  ;  I  maintain,  that, 
with  all  his  errors  and  shortcomings,  he  was  a 
glorious  specimen  of  a  man." 

"  He  certainly  was.  Did  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  he  was  in  some  points  like  Ben 
Franklin,  —  a  kind  of  rhymed  Ben  Franklin  ? 
The  practical  tendency  of  his  mind  was  the 
same  ;  his  love  of  science  was  the  same  ;  his 
benignant,  philosophic  spirit  was  the  same  ; 
and  a  vast  number  of  his  little  poetic  maxims 
and  soothsayings  seem  nothing  more  than  the 
worldly  wisdom  of  Poor  Richard,  versified/' 

"  What  most  offends  me  is,  that  now  every 
German  jackass  must  have  a  kick  at  the  dead 
lion." 

"  And  every  one  who  passes  through  Wei 
mar  must  throw  a  book  upon  his  grave,  as 
travellers  did  of  old  a  stone  upon  the  grave  of 
Manfredi,  at  Benevento.  But,  of  all  that  has 
been  said  or  sung,  what  most  pleases  me  is 


A   Romance  165 

Heine's  Apologetic,  if  I  may  so  call  it ;  in 
which  he  says,  that  'the  minor  poets,  who 
flourished  under  the  imperial  reign  of  Goethe, 
resemble  a  young  forest,  where  the  trees  first 
show  their  own  magnitude  after  the  oak  of  a 
hundred  years,  whose  branches  had  towered 
above  and  overshadowed  them,  has  fallen. 
There  was  not  wanting  an  opposition  that 
strove  against  Goethe,  this  majestic  tree.  Men 
of  the  most  warring  opinions  united  themselves 
for  the  contest.  The  adherents  of  the  old 
faith,  the  orthodox,  were  vexed  that  in  the 
trunk  of  the  vast  tree  no  niche  with  its  holy 
image  was  to  be  found  ;  nay,  that  even  the 
naked  Dryads  of  paganism  were  permitted  to 
play  their  witchery  there  ;  and  gladly,  with 
consecrated  axe,  would  they  have  imitated  the 
holy  Boniface,  and  levelled  the  enchanted  oak 
to  the  ground.  The  followers  of  the  new 
faith,  the  apostles  of  Liberalism,  were  vexed, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  tree  could  not 
serve  as  a  Liberty  Tree,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  a 
barricade.  In  fact  the  tree  was  too  high  ;  no 
one  could  plant  the  red  cap  upon  its  summit, 
or  dance  the  Carmagnole  beneath  its  branches. 
The  multitude,  however,  venerated  this  tree 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  reared  itself  with 


1 66  Hyperion 

such  independent  grandeur,  and  so  graciously 
filled  the  world  with  its  odor,  while  its  branches 
streaming  magnificently  toward  heaven  made 
it  appear  as  if  the  stars  were  only  the  golden 
fruit  of  its  wondrous  limbs.'  Do  you  not  think 
that  beautiful  ? " 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful.  And  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  you  can  find  something  to  admire  in 
my  favorite  author,  notwithstanding  his  frail 
ties  ;  or,  to  use  an  old  German  saying,  that 
you  can  drive  the  hens  out  of  the  garden  with 
out  trampling  down  the  beds." 

"Here  is  the  old  gentleman  himself!"  ex 
claimed  Flemming. 

"  Where  ? "  cried  the  Baron,  as  if  for  the 
moment  he  expected  to  see  the  living  figure 
of  the  poet  walking  before  them. 

"  Here  at  the  window,  —  that  full-length 
cast.  Excellent,  —  is  it  not  ?  He  is  dressed, 
as  usual,  in  his  long  yellow  nankeen  surtout, 
with  a  white  cravat  crossed  in  front.  What  a 
magnificent  head  !  and  what  a  posture  !  He 
stands  like  a  tower  of  strength.  And,  by 
Heavens!  he  was  nearly  eighty  years  old  when 
that  was  made."  • 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  by  the  date  on  the  pedestal." 


A  Romance  167 

"  You  are  right.  And  yet  how  erect  he 
stands,  with  his  square  shoulders  braced  back, 
and  his  hands  behind  him  !  He  looks  as  if 
he  were  standing  before  the  fire.  I  feel 
tempted  to  put  a  live  coal  into  his  hand,  it  lies 
so  invitingly  half-open.  Gleim's  description 
of  him,  soon  after  he  went  to  Weimar,  is  very 
different  from  this.  Do  you  recollect  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  a  story  which  good  old  father  Gleim 
used  to  tell  with  great  delight.  He  was  one 
evening  reading  the  Gottingen  Musen-Alma- 
nach  in  a  select  society  at  Weimar,  when  a 
young  man  came  in,  dressed  in  a  short,  green 
shooting-jacket,  booted  and  spurred,  and  hav 
ing  a  pair  of  brilliant,  black,  Italian  eyes.  He, 
in  turn,  offered  to  read  ;  but  finding,  probably, 
the  poetry  of  the  Musen-Almanach  of  that 
year  rather  too  insipid  for  him,  he  soon  began 
to  improvise  the  wildest  and  most  fantastic 
poems  imaginable,  and  in  all  possible  forms 
and  measures,  pretending  all  the  while  to  read 
from  the  book.  'That  is  either  Goethe  or 
the  Devil/  said  good  old  father  Gleim  to  Wie- 
land,  who  sat  near  him.  To  which  the  Great 
I  of  Osmannstadt  replied,  — '  It  is  both,  for  he 
has  the  Devil  in  him  to-night ;  and  at  such 


1 68  Hyperion 

times  he  is  like  a  wanton  colt,  that  flings  out 
before  and  behind,  and  you  will  do  well  not  to 
go  too  near  him  ! ' ' 

"  Very  good  !  " 

"  And  now  that  noble  figure  is  but  mould. 
Only  a  few  months  ago,  those  majestic  eyes 
looked  for  the  last  time  on  the  light  of  a  pleas 
ant  spring  morning.  Calm,  like  a  god,  the 
old  man  sat ;  and  with  a  smile  seemed  to  bid 
farewell  to  the  light  of  day,  on  which  he  had 
gazed  for  more  than  eighty  years.  Books 
were  near  him,  and  the  pen  which  had  just 
dropped,  as  it  were,  from  his  dying  fingers.  — 
Open  the  shutters,  and  let  in  more  light ! 
were  the  last  words  that  came  from  those  lips. 
Slowly  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  seemed 
to  write  in  the  air ;  and,  as  it  sank  down  again 
and  was  motionless,  the  spirit  of  the  old  man 
departed." 

"  And  yet  the  world  goes  on.  It  is  strange 
how  soon,  when  a  great  man  dies,  his  place  is 
filled  ;  and  so  completely,  that  he  seems  no 
longer  wanted.  But  let  us  step  in  here.  I 
wish  to  buy  that  cast." 


A  Romance  169 


CHAPTER    IX. 

The  Daylight  of  the  Dwarfs,  and  the 
Falling  Star 

AFTER  lingering  a  day  or  two  in  Frank 
fort,  the  two  friends  struck  across 
through  Hochheim  to  the  Rhine,  and  up 
among  the  hills  of  the  Rheingau  to  Schlan- 
genbad,  where  they  tarried  only  to  bathe  and 
to  dine,  and  then  pursued  their  way  to  Lan- 
genschwalbach.  The  town  lies  in  a  valley, 
with  gently  sloping  hills  around  it,  and  long 
avenues  of  poplars  leading  forth  into  the 
fields.  One  interminable  street  cuts  the  town 
in  twain,  and  there  are  old  houses  with  curi 
ous  faces  carved  upon  their  fronts,  and  dates 
of  the  olden  time. 

Our  travellers  soon  sallied  forth  from  their 
hotel,  impatient  to  drink  the  strength-giving 
waters  of  the  fountains.  They  continued 
their  walk  far  up  the  valley  under  the  poplars. 
The  new  grain  was  waving  in  the  fields  ;  the 
birds  singing  in  the  trees  and  in  the  air ;  and 


1 70  Hyperion 

everything  seemed  glad,  save  a  poor  old  man, 
who  came  tottering  out  of  the  woods,  with 
a  heavy  bundle  of  sticks  on  his  shoulders. 

Returning  upon  their  steps,  they  passed 
down  the  valley  and  through  the  long  street 
to  the  tumble-down  old  Lutheran  church.  A 
flight  of  stone  steps  leads  from  the  street  to 
the  green  terrace  or  platform  on  which  the 
church  stands,  and  which  in  ancient  times  was 
the  church-yard,  or,  as  the  Germans  more 
devoutly  say,  God's-acre  ;  where  generations 
are  scattered  like  seeds,  and  that  which  is 
sown  in  corruption  shall  be  raised  hereaf 
ter  in  incorruption.  On  the  steps  stood  an 
old  man,  —  a  very  old  man,  —  holding  a  little 
girl  by  the  hand.  He  took  oft"  his  greasy  cap 
as  they  passed,  and  wished  them  good  day. 
His  teeth  were  gone  ;  he  could  hardly  articu 
late  a  syllable.  The  Baron  asked  him  how  old 
the  church  was.  He  gave  no  answer  ;  but 
when  the  question  was  repeated,  came  close 
up  to  them,  and,  taking  off  his  cap  again, 
turned  his  ear  attentively,  and  said  :  — 

"  I  am  hard  of  hearing." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  Flemming  ;  "  he  is  a? 
much  a  ruin  as  the  church  we  are  entering 
It  will  not  be  long  before  he,  too,  shall  be  sowi> 
as  seed  in  this  God's-acre  ! " 


A   Romance  1 7 1 

The  little  girl  ran  into  a  house  close  at 
hand,  and  brought  out  the  great  key.  The 
church -door  swung  open,  and,  descending  a 
few  steps,  they  passed  through  a  low-roofed 
passage  into  the  church.  All  was  in  ruin.  The 
gravestones  in  the  pavement  were  started  from 
their  places  ;  the  vaults  beneath  yawned  ;  the 
roof  above  was  falling  piecemeal ;  there  were 
rents  in  the  old  tower  ;  and  mysterious  pas 
sages,  and  side  doors  with  crazy  flights  of 
wooden  steps,  leading  down  into  the  church 
yard.  Amid  all  this  ruin,  one  thing  only 
stood  erect  ;  it  was  a  statue  of  a  knight  in 
armor/ standing  in  a  niche  under  the  pulpit. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  said  Flemming  to  the  old 
sexton  ;  "  \vho  is  this,  that  stands  here  so  sol 
emnly  in  marble,  and  seems  to  be  keeping 
guard  over  the  dead  men  below  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  old  man ;  "but 
I  have  heard  my  grandfather  say  it  was  the 
statue  of  a  great  warrior ! " 

"There  is  history  for  you!"  exclaimed  the 
Baron.  "  There  is  fame  !  To  have  a  statue 
of  marble,  and  yet  have  your  name  forgotten  by 
the  sexton  of  your  parish,  who  can  remember 
only  that  he  once  heard  his  grandfather  say  that 
you  were  a  great  warrior ! " 


1 7  2  Hyperion 

Flemming  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  think 
ing  of  the  days,  when,  from  that  old  pulpit, 
some  bold  reformer  thundered  clown  the  first 
tidings  of  a  new  doctrine,  and  the  roof  ech 
oed  with  the  grand  old  hymn  of  Martin  Lu 
ther. 

When  he  communicated  his  thoughts  to  the 
Baron,  the  only  answer  he  received  was :  — 

"After  all,  what  is  the  use  of  so  much 
preaching  ?  Do  you  think  the  fishes,  that 
heard  the  sermon  of  St.  Anthony,  were  any 
better  than  those  who  did  not  ?  I  commend 
to  your  favorable  notice  the  fish-sermon  of  this 
saint,  as  recorded  by  Abraham  a  Sancta 
Clara.  You  will  find  it  in  your  favorite  Won 
der-Horn." 

Thus  passed  the  day  at  Langenschwalbach ; 
and  the  evening  at  the  Allee-Saal  was  quite 
solitary  ;  for  as  yet  no  company  had  arrived 
to  fill  its  chambers,  or  sit  under  the  trees 
before  the  door.  The  next  morning  even 
Flemming  and  the  Baron  were  gone  ;  for  the 
German's  heart  was  beating  with  strong  desire 
to  embrace  his  sister  ;  and  the  heart  of  his 
friend  cared  little  whither  he  went,  sobeit  he 
were  not  too  much  alone. 

After  a  few  hours'  drive,  they  were  looking 


A  Romance  173 


down  from  the  summit  of  a  hill  directly  upon 
the  house-tops  of  Ems.  There  it  lay,  deep 
sunk  in  the  hollow  beneath  them,  as  if  some 
inhabitant  of  Sirius,  like  him  spoken  of  in 
Voltaire's  tale  of  Micromegas,  held  it  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  High  and  peaked  rise 
the  hills  that  throw  their  shadows  into  this 
romantic  valley,  and  at  their  base  winds  the 
river  Lahn.  Our  travellers  drove  through  the 
one  long  street  composed  entirely  of  hotels 
and  lodging-houses.  Sick  people  looked  out 
of  the  windows  as  they  passed.  Others  were 
walking  leisurely  up  and  down,  beneath  the 
few  decapitated  trees,  which  represent  a  pub 
lic  promenade  ;  and  a  boy,  with  a  blue  frock 
and  crimson  cap,  was  driving  three  donkeys 
down  the  street.  In  short,  they  were  in  a 
fashionable  watering-place  ;  as  yet  sprinkled 
only  by  a  few  pattering  drops  of  the  summer 
rain  of  strangers,  which  generally  follows  the 
first  hot  days. 

On  alighting  at  the  London  Hotel,  the  Baron 
found  —  not  his  sister,  but  only  a  letter  from 
her,  saying  she  had  changed  her  mind  and 
gone  to  the  Baths  of  Franconia.  This  was  a 
disappointment,  which  the  Baron  pocketeci 
with  the  letter,  and  said  not  a  word  more  about 


1 74  Hyperion 

either.  It  was  his  way,  —  his  philosophy  in 
small  things  and  great.  In  the  evening,  they 
went  to  an  aesthetic  tea,  at  the  house  of  the 
Frau  Kranich,  the  wife  of  a  rich  banker  of 
Frankfort. 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  this  Frau  Kranich," 
said  the  Baron  to  Flemming,  on  the  way. 
"  She  is  a  woman  of  talent  and  beauty,  and 
just  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
very  ambitious.  Her  mania  is,  to  make  a  fig 
ure  in  the  fashionable  world  ;  and  to  this  end 
she  married  a  rich  banker  of  Frankfort,  old 
enough  to  be  her  father,  not  to  say  her  grand 
father,  hoping,  doubtless,  that  he  would  soon 
die  ;  for,  if  ever  a  woman  wished  to  be  a 
widow,  she  is  that  woman.  But  the  old  fellow 
is  tough  and  won't  die.  Moreover,  he  is  deaf, 
and  crabbed,  and  penurious,  and  half  the  time 
bedridden.  The  wife  is  a  model  of  virtue, 
notwithstanding  her  weakness.  She  nurses  the 
old  gentleman  as  if  he  were  a  child.  And, 
to  crown  all,  he  hates  society,  and  will  not 
hear  of  his  wife's  receiving  or  going  into  com 
pany." 

"  How,  then,  can  she  give  aesthetic  teas  ? " 
asked  Flemming. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  tell   you,"  continued 


A   Romance  175 

the  Baron.  "  The  gay  lady  has  no  taste  for 
long  evenings  with  the  old  gentleman  in  the 
back  chamber,  —  for  being  thus  chained  like 
a  criminal  under  Mezentius,  face  to  face  with 
a  dead  body.  So  she  puts  him  to  bed  first, 
and " 

"  Gives  him  opium." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  ;  and  then  gives  herself  a 
tea-party,  without  his  knowing  anything  about 
it.  This  course  of  deception  is  truly  hateful  in 
itself,  and  must  be  particularly  so  to  her,  for 
she  is  not  a  low  or  an  immoral  woman  ;  but  one 
of  those,  who,  not  having  strength  enough  to 
complete  the  sacrifice  they  have  had  strength 
enough  to  commence,  are  betrayed  into  a  life 
of  duplicity  and  falsehood." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  were 
ushered  into  a  room  gayly  lighted  and  filled 
with  guests.  The  hostess  came  forward  to 
receive  them,  dressed  in  white,  and  sailing 
down  the  room  like  a  swan.  When  the 
customary  salutations  had  passed  and  Flem- 
ming  had  been  duly  presented,  the  Baron 
said,  not  without  a  certain  degree  of  mal 
ice  :  — 

"  And,  my  dear  Frau  Kranich,  how  is  your 
good  husband  to-night  ?  " 


1 76  Hyperion 

This  question  was  about  as  discreet  as  a 
cannon-ball.  But  the  lady  replied,  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  her  heart,  and  not  in  the  least  dis 
concerted  :  — 

"  The  same  as  ever,  my  dear  Baron.  It  is 
astonishing  how  he  holds  out.  But  let  us  not 
talk  of  these  things  now.  I  must  introduce 
your  friend  to  his  countryman,  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Mississippi ;  alike  remarkable  for  his 
wealth,  his  modesty,  and  the  extreme  sim 
plicity  of  his  manners.  He  drives  only  six 
horses.  Besides,  he  is  known  as  a  man  of 
learning  and  piety,  —  has  his  private  chapel, 
and  private  clergyman,  who  always  preaches 
against  the  vanity  of  worldly  riches.  He  has 
also  a  private  secretary,  whose  sole  duty  is  to 
smoke  to  him,  that  he  may  enjoy  the  aroma 
of  Spanish  cigars,  without  the  trouble  of  smok- 
ing." 

"  Decidedly  a  man  of  genius  !  " 

Here  Flemming  was  introduced  to  his  il 
lustrious  countryman  ;  a  person  who  seemed 
to  consist  chiefly  of  linen,  such  a  display 
did  he  make  of  collar,  bosom,  and  wrist 
bands. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Flemming,  what  do  you  think 
of  that  Rembrandt  ? "  said  he,  pointing  to  a 


A  Romance  1 7  7 

picture  on  the  wall.  "Exquisite  picture! 
The  grandeur  of  sentiment  and  splendor  of 
chiaroscuro  are  of  the  first  order.  Just  observe 
the  liquidity  of  the  water,  and  the  silveriness 
of  the  clouds !  Great  power !  There  is  a  bra* 
vura  of  handling  in  that  picture,  Sir,  which  it 
requires  the  eye  of  the  connoisseur  to  appre- 
date." 

"  Yes,  a  most  undoubted  —  copy  !  " 

And  here  their  conversation  ended ;  for  at 
that  moment  the  little  Moldavian  Prince  Jer 
kin  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  with  his 
snuff-box  as  usual  in  his  hand,  and  hurried  up 
to  Flemming,  whom  he  had  known  in  Heidel 
berg.  He  was  eager  to  let  every  one  know 
that  he  spoke  English,  and  in  his  haste  began 
by  making  a  mistake. 

"  Good  bye  !  Good  bye  !  Mr.  Flemming  ! " 
said  he,  instead  of  good  evening.  "  I  am  rav 
ished  to  see  you  in  Ems.  Nice  place  ;  —  all 
that  there  is  of  most  nice.  I  drink  my  water 
and  am  good !  Do  you  not  think  the  Frau 
Kranich  has  a  very  beautiful  leather  ? " 

He  meant  skin.  Flemming  laughed  out 
right  ;  but  it  was  not  perceived  by  the  Prince, 
because  at  that  moment  he  was  pushed  aside, 
in  the  rush  of  a  gallopade,  and  Flemming  be- 


1 78  Hyperion 

held  his-  face  no  more.  At  the  same  moment 
the  Baron  introduced  a  friend  of  his,  who  also 
•spoke  English  and  said  :  — 

"You  will  sup  with  me  to-night.  I  have 
some  Rhine-wine,  which  will  be  a  seduction  to 
you." 

Soon  after,  the  Baron  stood,  with  an  impas 
sioned,  romantic  lady  leaning  on  his  arm,  exam 
ining  a  copy  of  Raphael's  Fornarina. 

"  Ach  !  I  wish  I  had  been  the  Fornarina," 
sighed  the  impassioned,  romantic  lady. 

"  Then,  my  dear  madam,"  replied  the  Baron, 
"  I  wish  I  had  been  Raphael." 

And  so  likewise  said  to  himself  a  very  tall 
rnan  with  fiery  red  hair  and  fancy  whiskers, 
who  was  waltzing  round  and  round  in  one 
spot,  and  in  a  most  extraordinary  waistcoat ; 
thus  representing  a  fiery  floating-light,  to 
warn  men  of  the  hidden  rocks  on  which  the 
breath  of  vanity  drives  them  shipwreck.  At 
length  his  partner,  tired  of  spinning,  sank  up 
on  a  sofa,  like  a  child's  top,  when  it  reels  and 
falls. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  waltz  ? "  said  an  elderly 
French  gentleman,  remarking  the  expression 
of  Flemming's  countenance. 

"  O  yes ;  among  the  figurantes  of  the  opera 


A   Romance  179 

But  I  confess  it  sometimes  makes  me  shudder 
to  see  a  young  rake  clasp  his  arms  round  the 
waist  of  a  pure  and  innocent  girl.  What  would 
you  say,  were  you  to  see  him  sitting  on  a  sofa 
with  his  arms  round  your  wife  ? " 

"  Mere  prejudice  of  education,"  replied  the 
French  gentleman.  "  I  know  that  situation. 
I  have  read  all  about  it  in  the  BibliotJicque  de 
Romans  Choisis  !  " 

And  merrily  went  the  dance ;  and  bright 
eyes  and  flushed  cheeks  were  not  wanting 
among  the  dancers ; 

"  And  they  waxed  red,  and  waxed  warm, 
And  rested,  panting,  arm  in  arm  "  ; 

and  the  Strauss-waltzes  sounded  pleasantly  in 
the  ears  of  Flemming,  who,  though  he  never 
danced,  yet,  like  Henry  of  Ofterdingen,  in  the 
romance  of  Novalis,  thought  to  music.  The 
wheeling  waltz  set  the  wheels  of  his  fancy  go 
ing.  And  thus  the  moments  glided  on,  and 
the  footsteps  of  Time  were  not  heard  amid  the 
sound  of  music  and  voices. 

But  suddenly  this  scene  of  gayety  was  inter 
rupted.  The  door  opened  wide ;  and  the 
short  figure  of  a  gray-haired  old  man  pre 
sented  itself,  with  a  flushed  countenance  and 


1 80  Hyperion 

wild  eyes.  He  was  but  half  dressed,  and  in  his 
hand  held  a  silver  candlestick  without  a  light. 
A  sheet  was  wound  round  his  head,  like  a  tur 
ban  ;  and  he  tottered  forward  with  a  vacant, 
bewildered  look,  exclaiming  :  — 

"  I  am  Mahomet,  the  king  of  the  Jews ! " 

At  the  same  moment  he  fell  in  a  swoon,  and 
was  borne  out  of  the  room,  by  the  servants. 
Flemming  looked  at  the  lady  of  the  festival, 
and  she  was  deadly  pale.  For  a  moment,  all 
was  confusion  ;  anJ  the  dance  and  the  music 
stopped.  The  impression  produced  on  the 
company  was  at  once  ludicrous  and  awful. 
They  tried  in  vain  to  rally.  The  whole  soci 
ety  was  like  a  dead  body,  from  which  the 
spirit  has  departed.  Erelong,tthe  guests  had 
all  dispersed,  and  left  the  lady  of  the  mansion 
to  her  mournful,  expiring  lamps,  and  still  more 
mournful  reflections. 

"  Truly,"  said  Flemming  to  the  Baron,  as 
they  wended  their  way  homeward,  "this  seems 
not  like  reality  ;  but  like  one  of  the  sharp  con- 
Tasts  we  find  in  novels.  Who  shall  say,  after 
this,  that  there  is  not  more  romance  in  real  life 
than  we  find  written  in  books?" 

"  Not  more  romance,"  said  the  Baron,  "  but 
a  different  romance." 


A   Romance  1 8 1 

A  still  more  tragic  scene  had  been  that 
evening  enacted  in  Heidelberg.  Just  as  the 
sun  set,  two  female  figures  walked  along  the 
romantic  woodland  pathway,  leading  to  the 
Angel's  Meadow,  a  little  green  opening  on 
the  brow  of  one  of  the  high  hills  which  see 
themselves  in  the  Neckar  and  hear  the  solemn 
bells  of  Kloster-Neuburg.  The  evening  shad 
ows  were  falling  broad  and  long ;  and  the 
cuckoo  began  to  sing. 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  said  the  eldest  of  the 
two  figures,  repeating  an  old  German  popular 
rhyme,  — 

"  '  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 
Tell  me  true, 
Tell  me  fair  and  fine, 
How  long  must  I  unmarried  pine  ? '  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  evil  spirit  that  spoke 
in  the  person  of  Madeleine  ;  and  the  pale  and 
shrinking  figure  that  walked  by  her  side,  and 
listened  to  those  words,  was  Emma  of  Ilmenau. 
A  young  man  joined  them,  where  the  path 
turns  into  the  thick  woodlands  ;  and  they  dis 
appeared  among  the  shadowy  branches.  It 
was  the  Polish  Count. 

The  forget-me-nots  looked  up  to  heaven 
with  their  meek  blue  eyes,  from  their  home  in 


1 82  Hyperion 

Angel's  Meadow.  Calmly  stood  the  mountain 
of  All-Saints,  in  its  majestic,  holy  stillness  ;  — 
the  river  flowed  so  far  below,  that  the  murmur 
of  its  waters  was  not  heard  ;  —  there  was  not 
a  sigh  of  the  evening  wind  among  the  leaves, 
not  a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air  ; 
—  and  yet  tha-*  night  there  fell  a  star  from 
heaven ! 


A  Romance  183 


CHAPTER    X. 
The  Parting 

IT  was  now  that  season  of  the  year  which 
an  old  English  writer  calls  the  amiable 
month  of  June,  and  at  that  hour  of  the  day, 
when,  face  to  face,  the  rising  moon  beholds 
the  setting  sun.  As  yet  the  stars  were  few  in 
heaven.  But,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  the 
coolness  and  the  twilight  descended  like  a 
benediction  upon  the  earth,  by  all  those 
gentle  sounds  attended  which  are  the  meek 
companions  of  the  night. 

Flemming  and  the  Baron  had  passed  the 
afternoon  at  the  Castle.  They  had  rambled 
once  more  together,  and  for  the  last  time,  over 
the  magnificent  ruin.  On  the  morrow  they 
were  to  part,  perhaps  for  ever.  The  Baron 
was  going  to  Berlin,  to  join  his  sister  ;  and 
Flemming,  driven  forward  by  the  restless  spirit 
within  him,  longed  once  more  for  a  change  of 
scene,  and  was  to  start  for  the  Tyrol  and 
Switzerland.  Alas!  he  never  said  to  the  pass- 


1 84  Hyperion 

ing  hour,  "  Stay,  for  thou  art  fair ! "  but 
reached  forward  into  the  dark  future,  with 
unsatisfied  longings  and  aimless  desires  that 
were  never  still. 

As  the  day  was  closing,  they  sat  down  on 
the  terrace  of  Elizabeth's  Garden.  The  sun 
had  set  beyond  the  blue  Alsatian  hills  ;  and 
on  the  valley  of  the  Rhine  fell  the  purple  mist, 
like  the  mantle  of  the  departing  prophet  from 
his  fiery  chariot.  Over  the  castle  walls  and 
the  trees  of  the  garden  rose  the  large  moon ; 
and  between  the  contending  daylight  and 
moonlight  there  were  as  yet  no  shadows.  But 
at  length  the  shadows  came,  —  transparent 
and  faint  outlines,  that  deepened  into  form. 
In  the  valley  below  only  the  river  gleamed, 
like  steel ;  and  here  and  there  the  lamps  were 
lighted  in  the  town.  Solemnly  stood  the  leafy 
linden-trees  in  the  garden  near  them,  their 
trunks  in  darkness  and  their  summits  bronzed 
with  moonlight  ;  and  in  his  niche  in  the  great 
round  tower,  overhung  with  ivy,  like  a  majes 
tic  phantom,  stood  the  gray  statue  of  Louis, 
with  his  venerable  beard,  and  shirt  of  mail, 
and  flowing  mantle  ;  and  the  mild,  majestic 
countenance  looked  forth  into  the  silent  night, 
as  the  countenance  of  a  seer  who  reads  the 


A   Romance  185 

stars.  At  intervals,  the  wind  of  the  summer 
night  passed  through  the  ruined  castle  and 
the  trees,  and  they  sent  forth  a  sound  as  if 
Nature  were  sighing  in  her  dreams  ;  and  for 
a  moment,  overhead,  the  broad  leaves  gently 
clashed  together,  like  brazen  cymbals,  with  a 
tinkling  sound  ;  and  then  all  was  still,  save 
the  sweet,  passionate  song  of  nightingales, 
that  nowhere  sing  more  sweetly  than  in  the 
gardens  of  Heidelberg  Castle. 

The  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  near-approach 
ing  separation  of  the  two  young  friends,  had 
filled  their  hearts  with  a  pleasant,  though 
at  the  same  time  not  painless  excitement. 
They  had  been  conversing  about  the  mag 
nificent  old  ruin,  and  the  ages  in  which  it 
had  been  built,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  time 
and  war,  that  had  battered  down  its  walls, 
and  left  it  "  tenantless,  save  to  the  cranny- 
ing  wind." 

"  How  sorrowful  and  sublime  is  the  face  of 
that  statue  yonder  ! "  said  Flemming.  "  It 
reminds  me  of  the  old  Danish  hero  Beowulf ; 
tor  careful,  sorrowing,  he  seeth  in  his  son's 
bower  the  wine-hall  deserted,  the  resort  of  the 
wind,  noiseless  ;  the  knight  sleepeth  ;  the 
warrior  lieth  in  darkness  ;  there  is  no  noise 


1 86  Hyperion 

of  the  harp,  no  joy  in  the  dwellings,  as  there 
was  before." 

"  Even  as  you  say,"  replied  the  Baron ; 
"  but  it  often  astonishes  me,  that,  coming  from 
that  fresh  green  world  of  yours  beyond  the 
sea,  you  should  feel  so  much  interest  in  these 
old  things  ;  nay,  at  times,  seem  so  to  have 
drunk  in  their  spirit,  as  really  to  live  in  the 
times  of  old.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  see  what 
charm  there  is  in  the  pale  and  wrinkled  coun 
tenance  of  the  Past,  so  to  entice  the  soul  of  a 
young  man.  It  seems  to  me  like  falling  in 
love  with  one's  grandmother.  Give  me  the 
Present,  —  warm,  glowing,  palpitating  with 
life.  She  is  my  mistress  ;  and  the  Future 
stands  waiting  like  my  wife  that  is  to  be,  — 
for  whom,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  care  very  little 
just  now.  Indeed,  my  friend,  I  wish  you 
would  take  more  heed  of  this  philosophy  of 
mine  ;  and  not  waste  the  golden  hours  of 
youth  in  vain  regrets  for  the  past,  and  indef 
inite,  dim  longings  for  the  future.  Youth 
comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Therefore,"  said  Flemming,  "  let  us  so  en 
joy  it  as  to  be  still  young  when  we  are  old. 
For  my  part,  I  grow  happier  as  I  grow  older. 
When  I  compare  my  sensations  and  enjoy- 


A  Romance  187 

ments  now  with  what  they  were  ten  years 
ago,  the  comparison  is  vastly  in  favor  of  the 
present.  Much  of  the  fever  and  fretfulness  of 
life  is  over.  The  world  and  I  look  each  other 
more  calmly  in  the  face.  My  mind  is  more 
self-possessed.  It  has  done  me  good  to  be 
somewhat  parched  by  the  heat  and  drenched 
by  the  rain  of  life.'^ 

"  Now  you  speak  like  an  old  philosopher," 
answered  the  Baron,  laughing.  •"'  But  you  de 
ceive  yourself.  I  never  knew  a  more  restless, 
feverish  spirit  than  yours.  Do  not  think  you 
have  gained  the  mastery  yet.  You  are  only 
riding  at  anchor  here  in  an  eddy  of  the 
stream  ;  you  will  soon  be  swept  away  again 
in  the  mighty  current  and  whirl  of  accident. 
Do  not  trust  this  momentary  calm.  I  know 
you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  There  is 
something  Faust-like  in  you  ;  you  would  fain 
grasp  the  highest  and  the  deepest,  and  reel 
from  desire  to  enjoyment,  and  in  enjoyment 
languish  for  desire.  When  a  momentary 
change  of  feeling  comes  over  you,  you  think 
the  change  permanent,  and  thus  live  in  con 
stant  self-deception." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Flemming,  "  there  may  be 
some  truth  in  what  you  say.  There  are  times 


1 88  Hyperion 

when  my  soul  is  restless  ;  and  a  voice  sounds 
within  me,  like  the  trump  of  the  archangel,  and 
thoughts  that  were  buried,  long  ago,  come  out 
of  their  graves.  At  such  times  my  favorite 
occupations  and  pursuits  no  longer  charm  me. 
The  quiet  face  of  Nature  seems  to  mock  me." 

"  There  certainly  are  seasons,"  replied  the 
Baron,  "  when  Nature  teems  not  to  sympa 
thize  with  her  beloved  children.  She  sits 
there  so  eternally  calm  and  self-possessed,  so 
very  motherly  and  serene,  and  cares  so  little 
whether  the  heart  of  her  child  breaks  or  not, 
that  at  times  I  almost  lose  my  patience. 
About  that,  too,  she  cares  so  little,  that,  out 
of  sheer  obstinacy,  I  become  good-humored 
again,  and  then  she  smiles." 

"  I  think  we  must  confess,  however,"  con 
tinued  Flemming,  "that  all  this  springs  from 
our  own  imperfection,  not  from  hers.  How 
beautiful  is  this  green  world  which  we  in 
habit  !  See  yonder,  how  the  moonlight  min 
gles  with  the  mist !  What  a  glorious  night 
is  this  !  Truly,  every  man  has  a  Paradise 
around  him,  until  he  sins,  and  the  angel  of  an 
accusing  conscience  drives  him  from  his  Eden. 
And  even  then  there  are  holy  hours,  when 
this  angel  sleeps,  and  man  comes  back,  and, 


A  Romance  189 

with  the  innocent  eyes  of  a  child,  looks  into 
his  lost  Paradise  again,  —  into  the  broad  gates 
and  rural  solitudes  of  Nature.  I  feel  this 
often.  We  have  much  to  enjoy  in  the  quiet 
and  retirement  of  our  own  thoughts.  Bois 
terous  mirth  and  loud  laughter  are  not  my 
mood.  I  love  that  tranquillity  of  soul,  in 
which  we  feel  the  blessing  of  existence,  and 
which  in  itself  is  a  prayer  and  a  thanksgiving. 
I  find,  however,  that,  as  I  grow  older,  I  love 
the  country  less,  and  the  town  more." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  Baron  ;  "  and  pres 
ently  you  will  love  the  town  less  and  the 
country  more.  Say  at  once,  that  you  have  an 
undefined  longing  for  both  ;  and  prefer  town 
or  country,  according  to  the  mood  you  are  in. 
I  think  a  man  must  be  of  a  very  quiet  and 
happy  nature,  who  can  long  endure  the  coun 
try  ;  and,  moreover,  very  well  contented  with 
his  own  insignificant  person,  very  self-com 
placent,  to  be  continually  occupied  with  him 
self  and  his  own  thoughts.  To  say  the  least, 
a  town  life  makes  one  more  tolerant  and 
liberal  in  one's  judgment  of  others.  One  is 
not  eternally  wrapped  up  in  self-contempla 
tion  ;  which,  after  all,  is  only  a  more  holy 
kind  of  vanity." 


1 90  Hyperion 

In  conversation  like  this,  the  hours  glided 
away  ;  till  at  length,  from  the  Giant's  Tower, 
the  castle  clock  struck  twelve,  with  a  sound 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  Middle  Ages. 
Like  watchmen  from  their  belfries,  the  city 
clocks  answered  it,  one  by  one.  Then  distant 
and  muffled  sounds  were  heard.  Inarticulate 
words  seemed  to  blot  the  foggy  air,  as  if  writ 
ten  on  wet  paper.  These  were  the  bells  of 
Handschuhsheimer,  and  of  other  villages  on 
the  broad  plain  of  the  Rhine  and  among  the 
hills  of  the  Odenwald  ;  mysterious  sounds, 
that  seemed  not  of  this  world. 

Beneath  them,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills, 
lay  the  valley,  —  fathomless,  black,  impenetra 
ble.  Above  were  the  cloistered  stars,  that, 
nun-like,  walk  the  holy  aisles  of  heaven.  The 
city  was  asleep  in  the  valley  below  ;  all  asleep 
and  silent,  save  the  clocks,  that  had  just  struck 
twelve,  and  the  veering,  golden  weathercocks, 
that  were  swimming  in  the  moonlight,  like 
golden  fishes  in  a  glass  vase.  And  again  the 
wind  of  the  summer  night  passed  through  the 
old  castle  and  the  trees,  and  the  nightingales 
recorded  under  the  dark,  shadowy  leaves,  and 
the  heart  of  Flemming  was  full. 

When  he  had  retired  to  his  chamber,  a  feel- 


A  Romance  191 

ing  of  utter  loneliness  came  over  him.  The 
night  before  one  begins  a  journey  is  always  a 
dismal  night  ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 

"  In  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple  ! " 

and  how  much  more  so  when  the  place  and 
people  are  pleasant !  as  was  the  case  with 
those  that  Flemming  was  now  leaving.  No 
wonder  he  was  sad  and  sleepless.  Thoughts 
came  and  went,  and  bright  and  gloomy  fan 
cies,  and  dreams  and  visions,  and  sweet  faces 
looked  under  his  closed  eyelids,  and  vanished 
away,  and  came  again,  and  again  departed. 
He  heard  the  clock  strike  from  hour  to  hour, 
and  said,  "  Another  hour  is  gone."  At  length 
the  birds  began  to  sing  ;  and  ever  and  anon 
the  cock  crew.  He  arose,  and  looked  forth 
into  the  gray  dawn  ;  and  before  him  lay  the 
city  he  was  so  soon  to  leave,  all  white  and 
ghastly,  like  a  city  that  had  arisen  from  its 
grave. 

"All  things  must  change,"  said  he  to  the 
Baron,  as  he  embraced  him,  and  held  him  by 
the  hand.  "  Friends  must  be  torn  asunder, 
and  swept  along  in  the  current  of  events,  to 
see  each  other  seldom,  and  perchance  no 


192  Hyperion 

more.  For  ever  and  ever  in  the  eddies  of 
time  and  accident  we  whirl  away.  Besides 
which,  some  of  us  have  a  perpetual  motion  in 
our  wooden  heads,  as  Wodenblock  had  in  his 
wooden  leg  ;  and  like  him  we  travel  on,  with 
out  rest  or  sleep,  and  have  hardly  time  to  take 
a  friend  by  the  hand  in  passing ;  and  at  length 
are  seen  hurrying  through  some  distant  land. 
worn  to  a  skeleton,  and  all  unknown." 


BOOK    THE    THIRD 


Take  away  the  lights,  too  ; 

The  moon  lends  me  too  much  to  find  my  fears, 

And  those  devotions  I  am  now  to  pay 

Are  written  in  my  heart,  not  in  thy  book  ; 

And  I  shall  read  them  there  without  a  taper. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


BOOK    THE    THIRD 

CHAPTER    I, 

Summer-  Time 

THEY  were  right,  —  those  old  German 
Minnesingers,  —  to  sing  the  pleasant 
summer-time !  What  a  time  it  is  !  How  June 
stands  illuminated  in  the  calendar !  The  win 
dows  are  all  wide  open  ;  only  the  Venetian 
blinds  closed.  Here  and  there  a  long  streak 
of  sunshine  streams  in  through  a  crevice. 
We  hear  the  low  sound  of  the  wind  among  the 
trees ;  and,  as  it  swells  and  freshens,  the  dis 
tant  doors  clap  to,  with  a  sudden  sound.  The 
trees  are  heavy  with  leaves  ;  and  the  gardens 
full  of  blossoms,  red  and  white.  The  whole 
atmosphere  is  laden  with  perfume  and  sun 
shine.  The  birds  sing.  The  cock  struts  about, 
and  crows  loftily.  Insects  chirp  in  the  grass. 
Yellow  buttercups  stud  the  green  carpet  like 
golden  buttons,  and  the  red  blossoms  of  the 


1 96  Hyperion 

clover  like  rubies.  The  elm-trees  reach  their 
long,  pendulous  branches  almost  to  the  ground. 
White  clouds  sail  aloft ;  and  vapors  fret  the 
blue  sky  with  silver  threads.  The  white 
village  gleams  afar  against  the  dark  hills. 
Through  the  meadow  winds  the  river,  —  care 
less,  indolent.  It  seems  to  love  the  country, 
and  is  in  no  haste  to  reach  the  sea.  The  bee 
only  is  at  work,  —  the  hot  and  angry  bee. 
All  things  else  are  at  play  ;  he  never  plays, 
and  is  vexed  that  any  one  should. 

People  drive  out  from  town  to  breathe, 
and  to  be  happy.  Most  of  them  have  flowers 
in  their  hands  ;  bunches  of  apple-blossoms, 
and  still  oftener  lilacs.  Ye  denizens  of  the 
crowded  city,  how  pleasant  to  you  is  the 
change  from  the  sultry  streets  to  the  open 
field,  fragrant  with  clover-blossoms  !  how 
pleasant  the  fresh,  breezy  country  air,  dashed 
with  brine  from  the  meadows !  how  pleasant, 
above  all,  the  flowers,  —  the  manifold,  beau 
tiful  flowers! 

It  is  no  longer  day.  Through  the  trees 
rises  the  red  moon,  and  the  stars  are  scarcely 
seen.  In  the  vast  shadow  of  night,  the  cool 
ness  and  the  dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the  open 
window  to  enjoy  them  ;  and  hear  only  the 


A  Romance  197 

voice  of  the  summer  wind.  Like  black  hulks, 
the  shadows  of  the  great  trees  ride  at  anchor 
on  the  billowy  sea  of  grass.  I  cannot  see  the 
red  and  blue  flowers,  but  I  know  that  they  are 
there.  Far  away  in  the  meadow  gleams  the 
silver  Charles.  The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs 
sounds  from  the  wooden  bridge.  Then  all  is 
still,  save  the  continuous  wind  of  the  summer 
night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be  the 
wind,  or  the  sound  of  the  neighboring  sea. 
The  village  clock  strikes ;  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
not  alone. 

How  different  is  it  in  the  city !  It  is  late, 
and  the  crowd  is  gone.  You  step  out  upon  the 
balcony,  and  lie  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool, 
dewy  Night,  as  if  you  folded  her  garments 
about  you.  Beneath  lies  the  public  walk  with 
trees,  like  a  fathomless,  black  gulf,  into  whose 
silent  darkness  the  spirit  plunges  and  floats 
away,  with  some  beloved  spirit  clasped  in  its 
embrace.  The  lamps  are  still  burning  up  and 
down  the  long  street.  People  go  by,  with  gro 
tesque  shadows,  now  foreshortened,  and  now 
lengthening  away  into  the  darkness  and  van 
ishing,  while  a  new  one  springs  up  behind  the 
walker,  and  seems  to  pass  him,  revolving  like 
the  sail  of  a  windmill.  The  iron  gates  of  the 


198  Hyperion 

park  shut  with  a  jangling  clang.  There  are 
footsteps  and  loud  voices  ;  —  a  tumult,  —  a 
drunken  brawl,  —  an  alarm  of  fire  ;  — then  si 
lence  again.  And  now  at  length  the  city  is 
asleep,  and  we  can  see  the  night.  The  belated 
moon  looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no  one  to 
welcome  her.  The  moonlight  is  broken.  It 
lies  here  and  there  in  the  squares,  and  the 
openings  of  streets,  —  angular,  like  blocks  of 
white  marble. 


Under  such  a  green,  triumphal  arch,  O 
Reader,  with  the  odor  of  flowers  about  thee, 
and  the  song  of  birds,  shalt  thou  pass  onward 
into  the  enchanted  land,  as  through  the  Ivory 
Gate  of  dreams !  And  as  a  prelude  and  ma 
jestic  march,  one  sweet  human  voice,  coming 
from  the  bosom  of  the  Alps,  sings  this  sublime 
ode,  which  the  Alpine  echoes  repeat  afar. 

"  Come,  golden  Evening  !  in  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  all  the  mountain-tops.     'T  is  clone  ;  — 
The  tempest  ceases  ;   bold  and  bright, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill  ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;  on  presses  night ;  — 

Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still  ! 


A  Romance  1 99 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ;  —  spread 

The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 

The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet. 
While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 
And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 

Step  through  the  silent  gloom. 

All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice, 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss, 
Invisible  ;  the  ear  alone 

Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies  ; 
Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep,  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ;  —  but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon  ; 
In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn, 

Yet  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  morn, 

With  her  awakening  beam. 

Ah  !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear  ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 

Emerging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere  ; 
A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense, 
They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 


2OO  Hyperion 


I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe  ; 

Thee,  Leman's  Lake,  once  more  I  trace, 
Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath, 

As  beautiful  as  Dian's  face  : 
Pride  of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth  ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love, 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray  ; 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before, 
Where  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 

Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind  ; 
For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 

Whate'er  I  seek,  I  find."  * 

*  James  Montgomery. 


A  Romance  201 


CHAPTER    II. 

Foot-  Travelling 

'THELL  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless  ? 
JL  Why  dost  thou  look  forward  to  the  fu 
ture  with  such  strong  desire  ?  The  present  is 
thine,  —  and  the  past  ;  —  and  the  future  shall 
be  !  O  that  thou  didst  look  forward  to  the 
great  hereafter  with  half  the  longing  where 
with  thou  longest  for  an  earthly  future, — 
which  a  few  days,  at  most,  will  bring  thee  !  to 
the  meeting  of  the  dead,  as  to  the  meeting  of 
the  absent !  Thou  glorious  spirit-land !  O 
that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou  art,  —  the 
region  of  life  and  light  and  love,  and  the 
dwelling-place  of  those  beloved  ones  whose 
being  has  flowed  onward,  like  a  silver-clear 
stream  into  the  solemn-sounding  main,  into 
the  ocean  of  Eternity  ! 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through 
the  soul  of  Flemming,  as  he  lay  in  utter  soli* 
tude  and  silence  on  the  rounded  summit  of 
one  of  the  mountains  of  the  Furca  Pass,  and 


2O2  Hyperion 

gazed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  ardent  lonp- 
ing  in  his  heart,  into  the  blue,  swimming 
heaven  overhead,  and  at  the  glaciers  and  snowy 
mountain-peaks  around  him.  Highest  and 
whitest  of  all  stood  the  peak  of  the  Jungfrau, 
which  seemed  near  him,  though  it  rose  afar 
off  from  the  bosom  of  the  Lauterbrunner  Thai. 
There  it  stood,  holy  and  high  and  pure,  the 
bride  of  heaven,  veiled  and  clothed  in  white, 
and  lifting  the  thoughts  of  the  beholder  heav 
enward.  O,  he  little  thought  then,  as  he  gazed 
at  it  with  longing  and  delight,  how  soon  a  form 
was  to  arise  in  his  own  soul,  as  holy  and  high 
and  pure  as  this,  and  like  this  point  heaven 
ward  ! 

Thus  lay  the  traveller  on  the  mountain  sum 
mit,  reposing  his  weary  limbs  on  the  short, 
brown  grass,  which  more  resembled  moss  than 
grass.  He  had  sent  his  guide  forward,  that  he 
might  be  alone.  His  soul  within  him  \vas  wild 
with  a  fierce  and  painful  delight.  The  moun 
tain  air  excited  him  ;  the  mountain  solitudes 
enticed,  yet  maddened  him.  Every  peak,  every 
sharp,  jagged  iceberg,  seemed  to  pierce  him. 
The  silence  was  awful  and  sublime.  It  was 
like  that  in  the  soul  of  a  dying  man,  when  he 
hears  no  more  the  sounds  of  earth.  He  seemed 


/I   Romance  203 

to  be  laying  aside  his  earthly  garments.  The 
heavens  were  near  unto  him  ;  but  between  him 
and  heaven  every  evil  deed  he  had  done 
arose  gigantic,  like  those  mountain-peaks,  and 
breathed  an  icy  breath  upon  him.  O,  let  not 
the  soul  that  suffers  dare  to  look  Nature  in  the 
face,  where  she  sits  majestically  aloft  in  the 
solitude  of  the  mountains  !  for  her  face  is  hard 
and  stern,  and  turns  not  in  compassion  upon 
her  weak  and  erring  child.  It  is  the  counte 
nance  of  an  accusing  archangel,  who  summons 
us  to  judgment.  In  the  valley  she  wears  the 
countenance  of  a  Virgin  Mother,  looking  at 
us  with  tearful  eyes,  and  a  face  of  pity  and 
love! 

But  yesterday  Flemming  had  come  up  the 
valley  of  the  Saint  Gothard  Pass,  through 
Amsteg,  where  the  Kerstelenbach  comes  dash 
ing  down  the  Maderaner  Thai,  from  its  snowy 
cradle  overhead.  The  road  is  steep,  and  runs 
on  zigzag  terraces.  The  sides  of  the  moun 
tains  are  barren  cliffs  ;  and  from  their  cloud- 
capt  summits,  unheard  amid  the  roar  of  the 
great  torrent  below,  come  streams  of  snow- 
white  foam,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  like  the 
mountain  chamois.  As  you  advance,  the  scene 
grows  wilder  and  more  desolate.  There  is  not 


204  Hyperion 

a  tree  in  sight,  —  not  a  human  habitation. 
Clouds,  black  as  midnight,  lower  upon  you 
from  the  ravines  above  ;  and  the  mountain 
torrent  beneath  is  but  a  sheet  of  foam,  and 
sends  up  an  incessant  roar.  A  sudden  turn  in 
the  road  brings  you  in  sight  of  a  lofty  bridge, 
stepping  from  cliff  to  cliff  with  a  single  stride. 
A  mighty  cataract  howls  beneath  it,  like  an 
evil  spirit,  and  fills  the  air  with  mist ;  and  the 
mountain  wind  claps  its  hands  and  shrieks 
through  the  narrow  pass,  Ha !  ha !  This  is 
the  Devil's  Bridge.  It  leads  the  traveller 
across  the  fearful  chasm,  and  through  a  moun 
tain  gallery  into  the  broad,  green,  silent 
meadow  of  Andermath. 

Even  the  sunny  morning  which  followed 
this  gloomy  day  had  not  chased  the  desolate 
impression  from  the  soul  of  Flemming.  His 
excitement  increased  as  he  lost  himself  more 
and  more  among  the  mountains  ;  and  now,  as 
he  lay  alone  on  the  summit  of  the  sunny  hill, 
with  only  glaciers  and  snowy  peaks  about  him, 
his  soul,  as  I  have  said,  was  wild  with  a  fierce 
and  painful  delight. 

A  human  voice  broke  his  reverie.  He 
looked,  and  beheld,  at  a  short  distance  from 
aim,  the  athletic  form  of  a  mountain  herdsman, 


A  Romance  205 

who  was  approaching  the  spot  where  he  lay. 
He  was  a  young  man,  clothed  in  a  rustic  garb, 
and  holding  a  long  staff  in  his  hand.  When 
Flemming  rose,  he  stood  still,  and  gazed  at  him, 
as  if  he  loved  the  face  of  man,  even  of  a  stran 
ger,  and  longed  to  hear  a  human  voice,  though 
it  might  speak  in  an  unknown  tongue.  He 
answered  Flemming's  salutation  in  a  rude 
mountain  dialect,  and  in  reply  to  his  questions 
said :  — 

"  I,  with  two  others,  have  charge  of  two 
hundred  head  of  cattle  on  these  mountains. 
Through  the  two  summer  months,  we  remain 
here  night  and  day  ;  for  which  we  receive  each 
a  napoleon." 

Flemming  gave  him  half  his  summer  wages. 
He  was  glad  to  do  a  good  deed  in  secret,  and 
yet  so  near  heaven.  The  man  received  it  as 
his  due,  like  a  toll-keeper ;  and  soon  after  de 
parted,  leaving  the  traveller  alone.  And  the 
traveller  went  his  way  down  the  mountain,  as 
one  distraught.  He  stopped  only  to  pluck  one 
bright  blue  flower,  which  bloomed  alone  in  the 
vast  desert,  and  looked  up  at  him,  as  if  to  say, 
"  O,  take  me  with  you !  leave  me  not  here  con> 
panionless  ! " 

Erelong  he  reached  the  magnificent  glacier 


206  Hyperion 

of  the  Rhone  ;  a  frozen  cataract,  more  than 
two  thousand  feet  in  height,  and  many  miles 
broad  at  its  base.  It  fills  the  whole  valley 
between  two  mountains,  running  back  to  their 
summits.  At  -the  base  it  is  arched,  like  a 
dome  ;  and  above,  jagged  and  rough,  and 
resembles  a  mass  of  gigantic  crystals,  of  a  pale 
emerald  tint,  mingled  with  white.  A  snowy 
crust  covers  its  surface  ;  but  at  every  rent  and 
crevice  the  pale  green  ice  shines  clear  in  the 
sun.  Its  shape  is  that  of  a  glove,  lying  with 
the  palm  downwards,  and  the  fingers  crooked 
and  close  together.  It  is  a  gauntlet  of  ice, 
which,  centuries  ago,  Winter,  the  king  of  these 
mountains,  threw  down  in  defiance  to  the 
Sun  ;  and  year  by  year  the  Sun  strives  in 
vain  to  lift  it  from  the  ground  on  the  point  of 
his  glittering  spear.  A  feeling  of  wonder 
and  delight  came  over  the  soul  of  Flemming 
when  he  beheld  it,  and  he  shouted  and  cried 
aloud  :  — 

"  How  wonderful !  how  glorious  ! " 
After  lingering  a  few  hours  in  the  cold,  des 
olate  valley,  he  climbed  in  the  afternoon  the 
steep  Mayen-Wand,  on  the  Grimsel ;  passed 
the  Lake  of  the  Dead,  with  its  ink-black 
waters  ;  and  through  the  melting  snow,  and 


A  Romance  207 

over  slippery  stepping-stones  in  the  beds  of 
numberless  shallow  brooks,  descended  to  the 
Grimsel  Hospital,  where  he  passed  the  night, 
and  thought  it  the  most  lone  and  desolate 
spot  that  man  ever  slept  in. 

On  the  morrow  he  rose  with  the  day  ;  and 
the  rising  sun  found  him  already  standing  on 
the  rustic  bridge  which  hangs  over  the  verge 
of  the  Falls  of  the  Aar  at  Handeck,  where  the 
river  pitches  down  a  precipice  intc  a  narrow 
and  fearful  abyss  shut  in  by  perpendicular 
cliffs.  At  right  angles  with  it  comes  the  beau 
tiful  Aerlenbach  ;  and  half-way  down,  the 
double  cascade  mingles  into  one.  Thus  he 
pursued  his  way  down  the  Hasli  Thai  into  the 
Bernese  Oberland,  —  restless,  impatient,  he 
knew  not  why, — stopping  seldom,  and  never 
long,  —  and  then  rushing  forward  again,  like 
the  rushing  river  whose  steps  he  followed, 
and  in  whose  ice-cold  waters  ever  and  anon 
he  bathed  his  wrists,  to  cool  the  fever  in  his 
blood ;  for  the  noonday  sun  was  hot. 

His  heart  dilated  in  the  dilating  valley, 
that  grew  broader  and  greener  at  every  step. 
The  sight  of  human  faces  and  human  dwellings 
soothed  him  ;  and  through  the  fields  of  sum 
mer  grain,  in  the  broad  meadows  of  Imgrund, 


2o8  Hyperion 

he  walked  with  a  heart  that  ached  no  more, 
but  trembled  only,  as  our  eyelids  when  we 
have  done  weeping.    As  he  climbed  the  oppo 
site  hill,  which  hems  in  this  romantic  valley, 
and,  like  a  heavy  yoke,  chafes  the  neck  of  the 
Aar,  he  believed  the  ancient  tradition,  which 
says  that  once  the  valley  was  a  lake.     From 
the  summit  of  the  hill  he  looked  southward 
upon  a  beautiful  landscape  of  gardens,   and 
fields  of  grain,  and  woodlands,  and  meadows, 
and  the  ancient  castle  of  Resti,  looking  down 
upon   Meyringen.     And  now  all  around  him 
were  the  singing  of  birds,  and  grateful  shad 
ows   of  the   leafy   trees,  and    sheeted   water 
falls  dropping  from  the  woodland  cliffs,  seen 
only,  but  unheard,  —  the  fluted  columns  break 
ing  into  mist,  and  fretted  with  frequent  spires 
and  ornaments  of  foam,  and  not   unlike  the 
towers  of  a  Gothic  church  inverted.     There, 
in  one  white  sheet  of  foam,  the  Reichenbach 
pours  down  into  its  deep  beaker,  into  which 
the  sun  never  shines.     Face  to  face  it  beholds 
the  Alpbach   falling   from    the  opposite   hill, 
"  like  a  downward  smoke."     When  Flemming 
saw  the  innumerable  runnels,  sliding  down  the 
mountain-side,  and  leaping,  all  life  and  glad 
ness,  he  would  fain  have  clasped  them  in  his 


A  Romance  209 

arms  and  been  their  playmate,  and  revelled 
with  them  in  their  freedom  and  delight.  Yet 
he  was  weary  with  the  day's  journey,  and  en 
tered  the  village  of  Meyringen,  embowered  in 
cherry-trees,  which  were  then  laden  with  fruit, 
more  like  a  way-worn  traveller  than  an  enthu 
siastic  poet.  As  he  went  up  the  tavern-steps, 
he  said  in  his  heart,  with  the  Italian  Aretino  : 
"  He  who  has  not  been  at  a  tavern  knows  not 
what  a  paradise  it  is.  O  holy  tavern !  O 
miraculous  tavern!  —  holy,  because  no  cark- 
ing  cares  are  there,  nor  weariness,  nor  pain  ; 
and  miraculous,  because  of  the  spits,  which 
of  themselves  turn  round  and  round  !  Of  a 
truth,  all  courtesy  and  good  manners  come 
from  taverns,  so  full  of  bows,  and  Signor,  si  ! 
and  Signer,  no  !  " 

But  even  in  the  tavern  he  could  not  rest 
long.  The  same  evening  at  sunset  he  was 
floating  on  the  lake  of  Brienz,  in  an  open  boat, 
close  under  the  cascade  of  the  Giessbach,  hear 
ing  the  peasants  sing  the  Ranz  des  Vaches. 
He  slept  that  night  at  the  other  extremity  of 
the  lake,  in  a  large  house,  which,  like  Saint 
Peter's  at  Joppa,  stood  by  the  water's  side. 
The  next  day  he  wasted  in  writing  letters, 
musing  in  this  green  nest,  and  paddling  about 


2 1  o  Hyperion 

the  lake  again  ;  and  in  the  evening  went  across 
the  beautiful  meadows  to  Interlachen,  where 
many  things  happened  to  him,  and  detained 
him  long. 


A  Romance  211 


CHAPTER    III. 

Interlachen 

T  NTERLACHEN !  How  peacefully,  by  the 
A  margin  of  the  swift-rushing  Aar,  thou  liest 
on  the  broad  lap  of  those  romantic  meadows, 
all  overshadowed  by  the  wide  arms  of  giant 
trees !  Only  the  quaint  towers  of  thine  ancient 
cloister  rise  above  their  summits  ;  the  quaint 
towers  themselves  but  a  child's  playthings 
under  the  great  church-towers  of  the  moun 
tains.  Close  beside  thee  are  lakes,  which  the 
flowing  band  of  the  river,  ties  together.  Before 
thee  opens  the  magnificent  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen,  where  the  cloud-hooded  Monk  and 
the  pale  Virgin  stand  like  Saint  Francis  and 
his  Bride  of  Snow ;  and  around  thee  are  fields, 
and  orchards,  and  hamlets  green,  from  which 
the  church-bells  answer  each  other  at  evening. 
The  evening  sun  was  setting  when  I  first  be 
held  thee.  The  sun  of  life  will  set  ere  I  forget 
thee !  Surely  it  was  a  scene  like  this  that 
inspired  the  soul  of  the  Swiss  poet,  in  his  Song 
9f  the  Bell ! 


2  i  2  Hyperion 

"  Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell  !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning-, 
Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

"Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bedtime  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

"  Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Art  but  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

"  God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  !  " 

Paul  Flemming  alighted  at  one  of  the  prin 
cipal  hotels.  The  landlord  came  out  to  meet 
him.  He  had  great  eyes  and  a  green  coat  ; 
and  reminded  Flemming  of  the  innkeeper 
mentioned  in  the  Golden  Ass,  who  had  been 


A   Romance  213 

changed  by  magic  into  a  frog,  and  croaked  to 
his  customers  from  the  lees  of  a  wine-cask. 
His  house,  he  said,  was  full,  and  so  was  every 
house  in  Interlachen  ;  but,  if  the  gentleman 
would  walk  in,  he  would  find  a  chamber  fot 
him  in  the  neighborhood. 

On  the  sofa  sat  a  gentleman,  reading ;  a 
stout  gentleman  of  perhaps  forty-five,  round, 
ruddy,  and  with  a  head  which,  being  a  little 
bald  .on  the  top,  looked  not  unlike  a  crow's 
nest  with  one  egg  in  it.  A  good-humored 
face  turned  from  the  book  as  Flemming 
entered ;  and  a  good-humored  voice  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  Ha  !  Mr.  Flemming  !  Is  it  you,  or  your 
apparition  ?  I  told  you  we  should  meet  again  ! 
though  you  were  for  taking  an  eternal  farewell 
of  your  fellow-traveller." 

Saying  these  words  the  stout  gentleman  rose 
and  shook  Flemming  heartily  by  the  hand. 
And  Flemming  returned  the  shake  as  heartily, 
recognizing  in  this  ruddy  personage  a  former 
travelling-companion,  Mr.  Berkley,  whom  he 
had  left,  a  week  or  two  previous,  toiling  up  the 
Righi.  Mr.  Berkley  was  an  Englishman  of 
fortune  ;  a  good-humored,  humane  old  bach 
elor,  remarkable  alike  for  his  common  sense 


2 1 4  Hyperion 

and  his  eccentricity.  That  is  to  say,  the  basis 
of  his  character  was  good,  sound  common- 
sense,  trodden  clown  and  smoothed  by  educa 
tion  ;  but  this  level  groundwork  his  strange 
and  whimsical  fancy  used  as  a  dancing-floor 
whereon  to  exhibit  her  eccentric  tricks.  His 
ruling  passion  was  cold-bathing  ;  and  he  usu 
ally  ate  his  breakfast  sitting  in  a  tub  of  cold 
water,  and  reading  a  newspaper.  He  kissed 
every  child  he  met ;  and  to  every  old  man^said, 
in  passing,  "  God  bless  you  ! "  with  such  an  ex 
pression  of  voice  and  countenance,  that  no 
one  could  doubt  his  sincerity.  Pie  reminded 
one  of  Roger  Bontemps,  or  the  Little  Man  in 
Gray  ;  though  with  a  difference. 

"  The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you,  Mr.  Berkley,"  said  Flemming,  "was  at 
Goldau,  just  as  you  were  going  up  the  Righi. 
I  hope  you  were  gratified  with  a  nVie  sunrise 
on  the  mountain-top." 

"No,  I  was  not!"  replied  Mr.  Berkley. 
"  It  is  all  a  humbug  !  a  confounded  humbug  ! 
They  made  such  a  noise  about  their  sunrise, 
that  I  determined  I  would  not  see  it.  So  I 
lay  snug  in  bed  ;  and  only  peeped  through  the 
window-curtain.  That  was  enough.  Just 
above  the  house,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  stood 


A  Romance  2 1  5 

some  fifty  half-dressed,  romantic  individuals, 
shivering  in  the  wet  grass  ;  and,  a  short  dis 
tance  from  them,  a  miserable  wretch,  blowing 
a  long,  wooden  horn.  That's  your  sunrise  on 
the  Righi,  is  it  ?  said  I  ;  and  went  to  sleep 
again.  The  best  thing  I  saw  at  the  Culm  was 
the  advertisement  on  the  bed-room  doors,  say 
ing,  that,  if  the  women  would  wear  the  quilts 
and  blankets  for  shawls,  when  they  went  out 
to  see  the  sunrise,  they  must  pay  for  the  wash 
ing.  Take  my  word  for  it,  the  Righi  is  a  great 
humbug ! " 

"  Where  have  you  been  since  ? " 
"At  Zurich  and  Schaff hausen.  If  you  go 
to  Zurich,  beware  how  you  stop  at  the  Ra 
ven.  They  will  cheat  you.  They  cheated 
me  ;  but  I  had  my  revenge  ;  for,  when  we 
reached  Schaffhausen,  I  wrote  in  the  Travel 
ler's  Book, — 

'  Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich  ! 

'  T  is  a  bird  of  omen  ill ; 
With  a  noisy  and  an  unclean  nest, 
And  a  very,  very  long  bill.' 

If  you  go  to  the  Golden  Falken,  you  will  find 
it  there.  I  am  the  author  of  those  lines  ! " 

"  Bitter  as  Juvenal !  "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

"  Not  in  the  least  bitter,"  said  Mr.  Berkley. 


2  1 6  Hyperion 

"It  is  all  true.  Go  to  the  Raven  and  see. 
*iut  this  Interlachen  !  this  Interlachen  !  It  is 
the  loveliest  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth,"  he 
continued,  stretching  out  both  arms,  as  if  to 
embrace  the  object  of  his  affection.  "There, 
—  only  look  out  there  ! " 

Here  he  pointed  to  the  window.  Flemming 
looked,  and  beheld  a  scene  of  transcendent 
beauty.  The  plain  was  covered  already  by  the 
brown  shade  of  the  summer  twilight.  From 
the  cottage  roofs  in  Unterseen  rose  here  and 
there  a  thin  column  of  smoke  over  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  and  mingled  with  the  evening  shad 
ows.  The  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen  was  filled 
with  a  blue  haze.  Far  above,  in  the  clear, 
cloudless  heaven,  the  white  forehead  of  the 
Jungfrau  blushed  at  the  last  kiss  of  the  depart 
ing  sun.  It  was  a  glorious  transfiguration  of 
Nature  !  And  when  the  village  bells  began  to 
ring,  and  a  single  voice  at  a  great  distance 
was  heard  yodling  forth  a  ballad,  it  rather 
broke  than  increased  the  enchantment  of  a 
scene,  where  silence  was  more  musical  than 
sound. 

For  a  long  time  they  gazed  at  the  gloaming 
landscape,  and  spake  not.  At  length  people 
came  in,  and  laid  aside  their  shawls  and  hats, 


A   Romance  217 

and  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  Berkley. 
To  Flemming  they  were  all  unknown.  The 
conversation  turned  upon  the  various  excur 
sions  of  the  day.  Some  had  been  at  the 
Staubbach,  others  at  the  Grindelwald,  others 
at  the  lake  of  Thun  ;  and  nobody  before  had 
ever  experienced  half  the  rapture  which  they 
had  experienced  that  day.  And  thus  they  sat 
in  the  twilight,  as  people  love  to  do,  at  the 
close  of  a  summer  day.  As  yet  the  lamps 
had  not  been  lighted,  and  one  could  not  distin 
guish  faces  ;  but  voices  only,  and  forms  like 
shadows. 

Presently  a  female  figure,  clothed  in  black, 
entered  the  room  and  sat  down  by  the  window. 
She  rather  listened  to  the  conversation,  than 
joined  in  it ;  but  the  few  words  she  said  were 
spoken  in  a  voice  so  musical  and  full  of  soul, 
that  it  moved  the  soul  of  Flemming,  like  a 
whisper  from  heaven. 

O,  how  wonderful  is  the  human  voice  !  It 
is  indeed  the  organ  of  the  soul !  The  intellect 
of  man  sits  enthroned  visibly  upon  his  fore 
head  and  in  his  eye  ;  and  the  heart  of  man  is 
written  upon  his  countenance.  But  the  soul 
reveals  itself  in  the  voice  only  ;  as  God  re 
vealed  himself  to  the  prophet  of  old  in  the 

10 


2 1 8  Hyperion 

still,  small  voice,  and  in  the  voice  from  the 
burning  bush.  The  soul  of  man  is  audible, 
not  visible.  A  sound  alone  betrays  the  flow 
ing  of  the  eternal  fountain,  invisible  to  man  ! 

Flemming  would  fain  have  sat  and  listened 
for  hours  to  the  sound  of  that  unknown  voice. 
He  felt  sure,  in  his  secret  heart,  that  the  being 
from  whom  it  came  was  beautiful.  His  imagi 
nation  filled  up  the  faint  outline  which  the  eye 
beheld  in  the  fading  twilight,  and  the  figure 
stood  already  in  his  mind  like  Raphael's  beau 
tiful  Madonna,  in  the  Dresden  gallery.  He 
was  never  more  mistaken  in  his  life.  The 
voice  belonged  to  a  beautiful  being,  it  is  true  ; 
but  her  beauty  was  different  from  ^  that  of  any 
Madonna  which  Raphael  ever  painted  ;  as  he 
would  have  seen,  had  he  waited  till  the  lamps 
were  lighted.  But  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie 
and  saint-painting,  the  landlord  came  in,  and 
told  him  he  had  found  a  room,  which  he 
begged  him  to  go  and  look  at. 

Flemming  took  his  leave  and  departed. 
Berkley  went  with  him,  to  see,  he  said,  what 
kind  of  a  nest  his  young  friend  was  to  sleep 
in. 

"  The  room  is  not  what  I  could  wish," 
said  the  landlord,  as  he  led  them  across  the 


A  Romance  219 

street.  "  It  is  in  the  old  cloister.  But  to-mor 
row  or  next  day,  you  can,  no  doubt,  have  a 
room  at  the  house." 

The  name  of  the  cloister  struck  Flem- 
ming's  imagination  pleasantly.  He  was  owl 
enough  to  like  ruins  and  old  chambers,  where 
nuns  or  friars  had  slept.  And  he  said  to  Berk- 
ley:- 

"  So,  you  perceive,  my  nest  is  to  be  in  a 
cloister.  It  already  makes  me  think  of  a  bird's 
nest  I  once  saw  on  an  old  tower  of  Heidelberg 
Castle,  built  in  the  jaws  of  a  lion,  which  for 
merly  served  as  a  spout.  But  pray  tell  me, 
who  was  that  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 

"  What  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ? " 

"  The  young  lady  in  black  who  sat  by  the 
window." 

"  O,  she  is  the  daughter  of  an  English  officer, 
who  died  not  long  ago  at  Naples.  She  is  pass- 
ins:  the  summer  here  with  her  mother." 

O 

"  What  is  her  name  ? " 

"  Ashburton." 

"Is  she  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Not  beautiful,  but  very  intellectual.  A 
woman  of  genius,  I  should  say." 

And  now  they  had  reached  the  walls  of  the 
cloister,  and  passed  under  an  arched  gateway, 


220  Hyperion 

and  close  beneath  the  quaint  towers,  which 
Flemming  had  already  seen,  rising  with  their 
cone-shaped  roofs  above  the  trees,  like  tall  ta 
pers,  with  extinguishers  upon  them. 

44  It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looks,"  said  the 
landlord,  knocking  at  a  small  door,  in  the  main 
building.  "The  bailiff  lives  in  one  part  of 
it." 

A  servant  girl,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
opened  the  door,  and  conducted  Flemming  and 
Berkley  to  the  chamber  which  had  been  en 
gaged.  It  was  a  large  room  on  the  lower  floor, 
wainscoted  with  pine,  and  unpainted.  Three 
lofty  and  narrow  windows,  with  leaden  lattices 
and  small  panes,  looked  southward  towards 
the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen  and  the  moun 
tains.  In  one  corner  was  a  large  square  bed, 
with  a  tester  and  checked  curtains.  In  another, 
a  huge  stove  of  painted  tiles,  reaching  almost 
to  the  ceiling.  An  old  sofa,  a  few  high-backed, 
antique  chairs,  and  a  table,  completed  the  fur 
niture  of  the  room. 

Thus  Flemming  took  possession  of  his 
monkish  cell  and  dormitory.  He  ordered  tea, 
and  began  to  feel  at  home.  Berkley  passed 
the  evening  with  him.  On  going  away,  he 
said :  — 


A  Romance  2  2  i 

4<  Good  night !  I  leave  you  to  the  care  of 
the  Virgin  and  all  the  Saints.  If  the  ghost  of 
any  old  monk  comes  back  after  his  prayer- 
book,  my  compliments  to  him.  If  I  were  a 
younger  man,  you  certainly  should  see  a  ghost. 
Good-night ! " 

When  he  had  departed,  Flemming  opened 
the  lattice  of  one  of  the  windows.  The  moon 
had  risen,  and  silvered  the  dark  outline  of  the 
nearest  hills  ;  while,  afar  off,  the  snowy  sum 
mits  of  the  Jungfrau  and  the  Silver-Horn 
shone  like  a  white  cloud  in  the  sky.  Close 
beneath  the  windows  was  a  flower-garden  ;  and 
the  breath  of  the  summer  night  came  to  him 
with  dewy  fragrance.  There  was  a  grateful 
seclusion  about  the  place.  He  blessed  the 
happy  accident  which  gave  him  such  a  lodging, 
and  fell  asleep  that  night  thinking  of  the  nuns 
who  once  had  slept  in  the  same  quiet  cells  ; 
but  neither  wimpled  nun  nor  cowled  monk 
appeared  to  him  in  his  dreams ; — not  even  the 
face  of  Mary  Ashburton  ;  nor  did  he  hear  her 
voice. 


222  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    IV. 
The  Evening  and  the  Morning  Star 

OLD  Froissart  tells  us,  in  his  Chronicles, 
that,  when  King  Edward  beheld  the 
Countess  of  Salisbury  at  her  castle-gate,  he 
thought  he  had  never  seen  before  so  noble  nor 
so  fair  a  lady  ;  he  was  stricken  thereupon  to 
the  heart  with  a  sparkle  of  fine  love,  that  en 
dured  long  after  ;  he .  thought  no  lady  in  the 
world  so  worthy  to  be  beloved  as  she.  And 
so  likewise  thought  Paul  Flemming,  when  he 
beheld  the  English  lady  in  the  fair  light  of 
a  summer  morning.  I  will  not  disguise  the 
truth.  She  is  my  heroine  ;  and  I  mean  to 
describe  her  with  great  truth  and  beauty,  so 
that  all  shall  be  in  love  with  her,  and  I  most 
of  all 

Mary  Ashburton  was  in  her  twentieth  sum 
mer.  Like  the  fair  maiden  Amoret,  she  was 
sitting  in  the  lap  of  womanhood.  They  did 
her  wrong  who  said  she  was  not  beautiful  ; 
and  yet 


A  Romance  223 

"  She  was  not  fair, 

Nor  beautiful  ;  —  those  words  express  her  not. 
But,  O,  her  looks  had  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name  ! " 

Her  face  had  a  wonderful  fascination  in  it. 
It  was  such  a  calm,  quiet  face,  with  the  light 
of  the  rising  soul  shining  so  peacefully  through 
it.  At  times  it  wore  an  expression  of  seri 
ousness,  —  of  sorrow  even  ;  and  then  seemed 
to  make  the  very  air  bright  with  what  the 
Italian  poets  so  beautifully  call  the  lampeg- 
giar  deW  angelica  riso,  —  the  lightning  of  the 
angelic  smile. 

And,  O,  those  eyes,  —  those  deep  unut 
terable  eyes,  with  "down-falling  eyelids  full 
of  dreams  and  slumber,"  and  within  them 
a  cold,  living  light,  as  in  mountain  lakes  at 
evening,  or  in  the  river  of  Paradise,  forever 
gliding, 

"  With  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon." 

I  dislike  an  eye  that  twinkles  like  a  star. 
Those  only  are  beautiful  which,  like  the  plan 
ets,  have  a  steady,  lambent  light,  —  are  lumi 
nous,  but  not  sparkling.  Such  eyes  the  Greek 
poets  give  to  Immortals. 


224  Hyperion 

The  lady's  figure  was  striking.  Every  step, 
every  attitude,  was  graceful,  and  yet  lofty,  as 
if  inspired  by  the  soul  within.  Angels  in  the 
old  poetic  philosophy  have  such  forms  ;  it  was 
the  soul  itself  imprinted  on  the  air.  And 
what  a  soul  was  hers!  A  temple  dedicated 
to  Heaven,  and,  like  the  Pantheon  at  Rome, 
lighted  only  from  above.  And  earthly  pas 
sions  in  the  form  of  gods  were  no  longer  there, 
but  the  sweet  and  thoughtful  faces  of  Christ, 
and  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  the  Saints.  Thus 
there  was  not  one  discordant  thing  in  her ;  but 
a  perfect  harmony  of  figure,  and  face,  and 
soul,  —  in  a  word,  of  the  whole  being.  And 
he  who  had  a  soul  to  comprehend  hers  must 
of  necessity  love  her,  and,  having  once  loved 
her,  could  love  no  other  woman  forever- 
more. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Flemming  felt  his 
heart  drawn  towards  her,  as,  in  her  morning 
walk,  she  passed  him,  sitting  alone  under  the 
great  walnut-trees  near  the  cloister,  and  think 
ing  of  heaven,  not  of  her.  She,  too,  was  alone. 
Her  cheek  was  no  longer  pale  ;  but  glowing 
and  bright,  with  the  inspiration  of  the  summer 
air.  Flemming  gazed  after  her,  till  she  disap 
peared,  even  as  a  vision  of  his  dreams,  he 


A  Romance  225 

knew  not  whither.  He  was  not  yet  in  love, 
but  very  near  it  ;  for  he  thanked  God  that 
he  had  made  such  beautiful  beings  to  walk  the 
earth. 

Last  night  he  had  heard  a  voice  to  which 
his  soul  responded  ;  and  he  might  have  gone  on 
his  way  and  taken  no  further  heed.  But  he 
would  have  heard  that  voice  afterwards,  when 
ever  at  evening  he  thought  of  this  evening  at 
Interlachen.  To-day  he  had  seen  more  clearly 
the  vision,  and  his  restless  soul  grew  calm. 
The  place  seemed  pleasant  to  him  ;  and  he 
could  not  go.  He  did  not  ask  himself  whence 
came  this  calm.  He  felt  it,  and  was  happy  in 
the  feeling ;  and  blessed  the  landscape  and  the 
summer  morning,  as  if  they  possessed  the 
wonder-working  power. 

"  A  pleasant  morning-dream  to  you,"  said  a 
friendly  voice  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  some 
one  laid  his  hand  upon  Flemming's  shoulder. 
It  was  Berkley.  He  had  approached  unseen 
and  unheard. 

"  I  see  by  the  smile  on  your  countenance," 
he  continued,  "  that  it  is  no  day-incubus." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  Flemming.  '•  It 
was  a  pleasant  dream,  which  you  have  put  to 
flight." 

10*  O 


226  Hyperion 

"And  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  also 
put  to  flight  the  gloomy  thoughts  which  used 
to  haunt  you.  I  like  to  see  people  cheerful 
and  happy.  Why  give  way  to  sadness  in  this 
beautiful  world  ? " 

"  Ah !  this  beautiful  world  !  "  said  Flemming, 
with  a  smiie.  "  Indeed,  I  know  not  what  to 
think  of  it.  Sometimes  it  is  all  gladness  and 
sunshine,  and  heaven  itself  lies  not  far  off. 
And  then  it  changes  suddenly,  and  is  dark 
and  sorrowful,  and  clouds  shut  out  the  sky. 
In  the  lives  of  the  saddest  of  us,  there  are 
bright  days  like  this,  when  we  feel  as  if  we 
could  take  the  great  world  in  our  arms.  Then 
come  the  gloomy  hours,  when  the  fire  will 
neither  burn  on  our  hearths  nor  in  our  hearts ; 
and  all  without  and  within  is  dismal,  cold,  and 
dark.  Believe  me,  every  heart  has  its  se 
cret  sorrows  which  the  world  knows  not,  and 
oftentimes  we  call  a  man  cold,  when  he  is  only 
sad." 

"  And  who  says  we  do  not  ? "  interrupted 
Berkley.  "  Come,  come  !  Let  us  go  to 
breakfast.  The  morning  air  has  given  me 
a  rude  appetite.  I  long  to  say  grace  over 
a  fresh  egg,  and  eat  salt  with  my  worst  ene 
mies  ;  namely,  the  Cockneys  at  the  hoteL 


A  Romance  227 

After  breakfast  you  must  give  yourself  up 
wholly  to  me.  I  shall  take  you  to  the  Grindel« 
wald ! " 

"  To-day,  then,  you  do  not  breakfast  like  Di 
ogenes,  but  consent  to  leave  your  tub." 

"  Yes,  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  I 
shall  also  blow  out  the  light  in  my  lantern,  hav 
ing  found  you." 

"Thank  you." 

The  breakfast  passed  without  any  unusual 
occurrence.  Flemming  watched  the  entrance 
of  every  guest;  but  she  came  not,  —  the  guest 
he  most  desired  to  see. 

"  And  now  for  the  Grindelwald ! "  said  Berk- 
ley. 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  We  have  the  whole  day 
before  us.  There  is  time  enough." 

"  Not  a  moment  to  lose,  I  assure  you.  The 
carriage  is  at  the  door." 

They  drove  up  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen, 
and  turned  eastward  among  the  mountains  of 
the  Grindelwald.  There  they  passed  the  day ; 
half-frozen  by  the  icy  breath  of  the  Great  Gla 
cier,  upon  whose  surface  stand  pyramids  and 
blocks  of  ice,  like  the  tombstones  of  a  ceme 
tery.  It  was  a  weary  day  to  Flemming.  He 
wished  himself  at  Interlachen ;  and  was  glad, 


228  Hyperion 

when,  towards  evening,  he  saw  once  more  the 
cone-roofed  towers  of  the  cloister  rising  above 
the  walnut-trees. 

That  evening  is  written  in  red  letters  in  his 
history.  It  gave  him  another  revelation  of  the 
beauty  and  excellence  of  woman's  character 
and  intellect ;  not  wholly  new  to  him,  yet  now 
renewed  and  fortified.  It  was  from  the  lips  of 
Mary  Ashburton  that  the  revelation  came. 
Her  form  arose,  like  a  tremulous  evening-star, 
in  the  firmament  of  his  soul.  He  conversed 
with  her,  and  with  her  alone  ;  and  knew  not 
when  to  go.  All  others  were  to  him  as  if  they 
were  not  there.  He  saw  their  forms,  but  saw 
them  as  the  forms  of  inanimate  things.  At 
length  her  mother  came  ;  and  Flemming  be 
held  in  her  but  another  Mary  Ashburton,  with 
beauty  more  mature  ;  —  the  same  forehead 
and  eyes,  the  same  majestic  figure  ;  and,  as 
yet,  no  trace  of  age.  He  gazed  upon  her 
with  a  feeling  of  delight,  not  unmingled  with 
holy  awe.  She  was  to  him  the  rich  and  glow 
ing  Evening,  from  whose  bosom  the  tremulous 
star  was  born. 

Berkley  took  no  active  part  in  the  conversa 
tion,  but  did  what  was  much  more  to  the  pur 
pose,  —  that  is  to  say,  arranged  a  drive  for  the 


A   Romance  229 

next  day  with  the  Ashburtons,  and  of  course 
invited  Flemming,  who  went  home  that  night 
with  a  halo  round  his  head,  and  wondering 
much  at  a  dandy,  who  stood  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  and  said  to  his  companion,  as  Flemming 
passed  :  — 

"  What  do  you  call  this  place  ?  I  have 
been  here  two  hours  already,  and  find  it  dev 
ilish  dull!" 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER    V. 
A  Rainy  Day 

WHEN  Flemming  awoke  the  next  morn 
ing,  he  saw  the  sky  dark  and  lower 
ing.  From  the  mountain-tops  hung  a  curtain 
of  mist,  whose  heavy  folds  waved  to  and  fro  in 
the  valley  below.  Over  all  the  landscape  the 
soft  summer  rain  was  falling.  No  admiring 
eyes  would  look  up  that  day  at  the  Staub- 
bach. 

A  rainy  day  in  Switzerland  puts  a  sudden 
stop  to  many  diversions.  The  coachman  may 
drive  to  the  inn,  and  then  back  to  the  stable  ; 
but  no  farther.  The  sun-burnt  guide  may  sit 
at  the  ale-house  door,  and  welcome  ;  and  the 
boatman  whistle  and  curse  the  clouds,  at  his 
own  sweet  will ;  —  but  no  foot  stirs  abroad  for 
all  that ;  no  traveller  moves,  if  he  has  time  to 
stay.  The  rainy  day  gives  him  time  for  reflec 
tion.  He  has  leisure  now  to  take  cognizance 
of  his  impressions,  and  make  up  his  account 
with  the  mountains.  He  remembers,  too,  that 


A  Romance  231 

he  has  friends  at  home  ;  and  writes  up  the 
journal,  neglected  for  a  week  or  more,  and  let 
ters  neglected  longer ;  or  finishes  the  rough 
pencil-sketch  begun  yesterday  in  the  open  air. 
On  the  whole,  he  is  not  sorry  it  rains, — though 
disappointed. 

Flemming  was  both  sorry  and  disappointed  ; 
but  he  did  not  on  that  account  fail  to  go  over 
to  the  Ashburtons  at  the  appointed  hour.  He 
found  them  sitting  in  the  parlor.  The  mother 
was  reading,  and  the  daughter  retouching  a 
sketch  of  the  Lake  of  Thun.  After  the  usual 
salutations,  Flemming  seated  himself  near  the 
daughter,  and  said  :  — 

"  We  shall  have  no  Staubbach  to-day,  I  pre 
sume  ;  only  this  Giessbach  from  the  clouds." 

"  Nothing  more,  I  suppose.  So  we  must  be 
content  to  stay  in-doors,  and  listen  to  the  sound 
of  the  eaves-dropping  rain.  It  gives  me  time 
to  finish  some  of  these  rough  sketches." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  pastime,"  said  Flemming  ; 
"  and  I  perceive  you  are  very  skilful.  I  am 
delighted  to  see  that  you  can  draw  a  straight 
line.  I  never  before  saw  a  lady's  sketch-book 
in  which  all  the  towers  did  not  resemble  the 
Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa.  I  always  tremble  for 
the  little  men  under  them." 


232  Hyperion 

"  How  absurd  ! "  exclaimed  Mary  Ashburton, 
with  a  smile  that  passed  through  the  misty 
air  of  Flemming's  thoughts  like  a  sunbeam. 
"  For  one,  I  succeed  much  better  in  straight 
lines  than  in  any  others.  Here  I  have  been 
trying  a  half-hour  to  make  this  water-wheel 
round  ;  and  round  it  never  will  be." 

"Then  let  it  remain  as  it  is.  It  looks  un 
commonly  picturesque,  and  may  pass  for  a 
new  invention." 

The  lady  continued  to  sketch,  and  Flem- 
ming  to  gaze  at  her  beautiful  face  ;  often  re 
peating  to  himself  those  lines  in  Marlow's 
Faust :  — 

"  O,  them  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars !  " 

He  certainly  would  have  betrayed  himself 
to  the  maternal  eye  of  Mrs.  Ashburton,  had 
she  not  been  wholly  absorbed  in  the  follies  of 
a  fashionable  novel.  Erelong,  the  fair  sketchier 
had  paused  for  a  moment ;  and  Flemming  had 
taken  her  sketch-book  in  his  hands  and  was 
looking  it  through  from  the  beginning  with 
ever-increasing  delight,  half  of  which  he  dared 
not  express,  though  he  favored  her  with  some 
comments  and  bursts  of  admiration. 

"  This  is  truly  a  very  beautiful  sketch  of 


A  Romance  233 

Murten  and  the  battle-field  !  How  quietly  the 
landscape  sleeps  there  by  the  lake,  after  the 
battle !  Did  you  ever  read  the  ballad  of  Veit 
Weber,  the  shoemaker,  on  this  subject  ?  He 
says,  the  routed  Burgundians  jumped  into  the 
lake,  and  the  Swiss  Leaguers  shot  them  down 
like  wild  ducks  among  the  reeds.  He  fought 
in  the  battle,  and  wrote  the  ballad  after 
wards  ;  — 

*  He  had  himself  laid  hand  on  sword, 

He  who  this  rhyme  did  write  ; 
Till  evening  mowed  he  with  the  sword, 
And  sang  the  song  at  night.'  " 

"  You  must  give  me  the  whole  ballad,"  said 
Miss  Ashburton  ;  "  it  will  serve  to  illustrate 
the  sketch." 

"And  the  sketch  to  illustrate  the  ballad. 
And  now  we  suddenly  slide  down  the  Alps 
into  Italy,  and  are  even  in  Rome,  if  I  mistake 
not.  This  is  surely  a  head  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  little  enthu 
siasm.  "  Do  you  not  remember  the  marble 
bust  at  Rome  ?  When  I  first  beheld  that 
bust,  it  absolutely  inspired  me  with  awe.  It 
is  not  the  face  of  a  man,  but  of  a  god ! " 

"  And  you  have  done  it  no  injustice  in  your 
copy,"  said  Flemming,  catching  a  new  enthusi' 


234  Hyperion 

asm  from  hers.  "  With  what  a  classic  grace 
the  fillet,  passing  round  the  majestic  forehead, 
confines  his  flowing  locks,  which  mingle  with 
his  beard !  The  countenance,  too,  is  calm, 
majestic,  godlike !  Even  the  fixed  and  sight 
less  eyeballs  do  not  mar  the  image  of  the 
seer!  Such  were  the  sightless  eyes  of  the 
blind  old  man  of  Chios.  They  seem  to  look 
with  mournful  solemnity  into  the  mysterious 
future ;  and  the  marble  lips  to  repeat  that 
prophetic  passage  in  the  Hymn  to  Apollo  :  - 
'  Let  me  also  hope  to  be  remembered  in  ages 
to  come.  And  when  any  one,  born  of  the 
tribes  of  men,  comes  hither,  a  weary  traveller, 
and  inquires,  who  is  the  sweetest  of  the  sing 
ing-men  that  resort  to  your  feasts,  and  whom 
you  most  delight  to  hear,  do  you  make  answer 
for  me :  It  is  the  Blind  Man  who  dwells  in 
Chios ;  his  songs  excel  all  that  can  ever  be 
sung  ! '  But  do  you  really  believe  that  this  is 
a  portrait  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not !  It  is  only  an  artist's  dream. 
It  was  thus  that  Homer  appeared  to  him  in 
his  visions  of  the  antique  world  Every  one, 
you  know,  forms  an  image  in  his  fancy  of 
persons  and  things  he  has  never  seen  ;  and 
the  artist  reproduces  them  in  marble  or  on 
canvas." 


A  Romance  235 

"  And  what  is  the  image  in  your  fancy  ?  Is 
it  like  this  ?" 

"  No  ;  not  entirely.  I  have  drawn  my  im 
pressions  from  another  source.  Whenever  I 
think  of  Homer,  which  is  not  often,  he  walks 
before  me,  solemn  and  serene,  as  in  the  vision 
of  the  great  Italian  ;  in  countenance  neither 
sorrowful  nor  glad,  followed  by  other  bards, 
and  holding  in  his  right  hand  a  sword ! " 

"  That  is  a  finer  conception  than  this,"  said 
Flemming.  "And  I  perceive  from  your  words, 
as  well  as  from  this  book,  that  you  have  a  true 
feeling  for  Art,  and  understand  what  it  is. 
You  have  had  bright  glimpses  into  the  en 
chanted  land." 

"  I  trust,"  replied  the  lady,  modestly,  "  that 
I  am  not  wholly  without  this  feeling.  Cer 
tainly  I  have  as  strong  and  passionate  a  love 
of  Art  as  of  Nature." 

"  But  does  it  not  often  offend  you  to  hear 
people  speaking  of  Art  and  Nature  as  opposite 
and  discordant  things  ?  Surely  nothing  can 
be  more  false.  Nature  is  a  revelation  of  God  ; 
Art  a  revelation  of  man.  Indeed,  Art  signi 
fies  no  more  than  this.  Art  is  Power.  That 
is  the  original  meaning  of  the  word.  It  is 
the  creative  power  by  which  the  soul  of  man 


236  Hyperion 

makes  itself  known,  through  some  extvmal 
manifestation  or  outward  sign.  As  we  can 
always  hear  the  voice  of  God,  walking  in  the 
garden,  in  the  cool  of  the  day,  or  under  the 
star-light,  where,  to  quote  one  of  this  poet's 
verses,  '  high  prospects  and  the  brows  of  all 
steep  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust  up  themselves 
for  shows,'  —  so  under  the  twilight  and  the 
starlight  of  past  ages  do  we  hear  the  voice 
of  man,  walking  amid  the  works  of  his  hands, 
and  city  walls  and  towers,  and  the  spires  of 
churches,  thrust  up  themselves  for  shows." 

The  lady  smiled  at  his  warmth  ;  and  he 
continued  :  — 

"  This,  however,  is  but  a  similitude  ;  and 
Art  and  Nature  are  more  nearly  allied  than 
by  similitudes  only.  Art  is  the  revelation  of 
man  ;  and  not  merely  that,  but  likewise  the 
revelation  of  Nature,  speaking  through  man. 
Art  pre-exists  in  Nature,  and  Nature  is  re 
produced  in  Art.  As  vapors  from  the  ocean, 
floating  landward  and  dissolved  in  rain,  are 
carried  back  in  rivers  to  the  ocean,  so  thoughts 
and  the  semblances  of  things  that  fall  upon 
the  soul  of  man  in  showers  flow  out  again  in 
living  streams  of  Art,  and  lose  themselves  in 
the  great  ocean,  which  is  Nature.  Art  and 


A  Romance  237 

Nature  are  not,  then,  discordant,  but  ever  har 
moniously  working  in  each  other." 

Enthusiasm  begets  enthusiasm.  Flemming 
spake  with  such  evident  interest  in  the  sub 
ject,  that  Miss  Ashburton  did  not  fail  to  mani 
fest  some  interest  in  what  he  said  ;  and  en 
couraged  by  this,  he  proceeded  :  — 

"  Thus  in  this  wondrous  world  wherein  we 
live,  which  is  the  World  of  Nature,  man  has 
made  unto  himself  another  world  hardly  less 
wondrous,  which  is  the  World  of  Art.  And 
it  lies  infolded  and  compassed  about  by  the 
other, 

'  And  the  clear  region  where  't  was  born 
Round  in  itself  encloses. ' 

Taking  this  view  of  Art,  I  think  we  under 
stand  more  easily  the  skill  of  the  artist,  and 
the  difference  between  him  and  the  mere 
amateur.  What  we  call  miracles  and  wonders 
of  Art  are  not  so  to  him  who  created  them  ; 
for  they  were  created  by  the  natural  move 
ments  of  his  own  great  soul.  Statues,  paint 
ings,  churches,  poems,  are  but  shadows  of 
himself;  —  shadows  in  marble,  colors,  stone, 
words.  He  feels  and  recognizes  their  beauty  ; 
but  he  thought  these  thoughts  and  produced 
these  things  as  easily  as  inferior  minds  do 


238  Hyperion 

thoughts  and  things  inferior ;  perhaps  more 
easily.  Vague  images  and  shapes  of  beauty 
floating  through  the  soul,  the  semblances  of 
things  as  yet  indefinite  or  ill-defined,  and  per 
fect  only  when  put  in  Art,  —  this  Possible 
Intellect,  as  the  Scholastic  Philosophers  have 
termed  it,  —  the  artist  shares  in  common  with 
us  all.  The  lovers  of  Art  are  many.  But 
the  Active  Intellect,  the  creative  power,  —  the 
power  to  put  these  shapes  and  images  in  Art, 
to  embody  the  indefinite,  and  render  perfect, 
—  is  his  alone.  He  shares  the  gift  with  few. 
He  knows  not  even  whence  nor  how  this  is. 
He  knows  only  that  it  is  ;  that  God  has  given 
him  the  power,  which  has  been  denied  to 
others." 

"  I  should  have  known  you  were  just  from 
Germany,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile,  "  even 
if  you  had  not  told  me  so.  You  are  an  en 
thusiast  for  the  Germans.  For  my  part,  I 
cannot  endure  their  harsh  language." 

"  You  would  like  it  better,  if  you  knew  it 
better,"  answered  Flemming.  "  It  is  not  harsh 
to  me  ;  but  homelike,  hearty,  and  full  of  feel 
ing,  —  like  the  sound  of  happy  voices  at  a 
fireside,  of  a  winter's  night,  when  the  wind 
blows,  and  the  fire  crackles,  and  hisses,  and 


A  Romance  239 

snaps.  I  do  indeed  love  the  Germans  ;  the 
men  are  so  hale  and  hearty,  and  the  Frauleins 
so  tender  and  true  ! "  .  . 

"  I  always  think  of  men  with  pipes  and 
beer,  and  women  with  knitting-work." 

"O,  those  are  English  prejudices!" exclaimed 
Flemming.  "  Nothing  can  be  more  —  " 

"And  their  very  literature  presents  itself 
to  my  imagination  under  the  same  forms." 

"  I  see  you  have  read  only  English  criti 
cisms  ;  and  have  an  idea,  that  all  German 
books  smell,  as  one  of  your  English  critics 
says,  'of  groceries,  of  brown  papers  filled  with 
greasy  cakes  and  slices  of  bacon,  and  of  fry- 
ings  in  frouzy  back-parlors ' ;  and  this  shuts 
you  out  from  a  glorious  world  of  poetry,  ro 
mance,  and  dreams ! " 

Mary  Ashburton  smiled,  and  Flemming  con 
tinued  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sketch 
book,  with  an  occasional  criticism  and  witti 
cism.  At  length  he  came  to  a  leaf  which 
was  written  in  pencil.  People  of  a  lively 
imagination  are  generally  curious,  and  always 
so  when  a  little  in  love. 

"  Here  is  a  pencil-sketch,"  said  he,  with  an 
entreating  look,  "which  I  would  fain  examine 
with  the  rest." 


240  Hyperion 

"  You  may  do  so,  if  you  wish  ;  but  you  will 
find  it  the  poorest  sketch  in  the  book.  I  was 
trying  one  day  .to  draw  the  picture  of  an 
artist's  life  in  Rome,  as  it  presented  itself  to 
my  imagination  ;  and  this  is  the  result.  Per 
haps  it  may  awaken  some  pleasant  recollec 
tion  in  your  mind." 

Flemming  waited  no  longer  ;  but  read  with 
the  eyes  of  a  lover,  not  of  a  critic,  the  follow 
ing  description,  which  inspired  him  with  a 
new  enthusiasm  for  Art,  and  for  Mary  Ash- 
burton. 

"  I  often  reflect  with  delight  upon  the  young 
artist's  life  in  Rome.  A  stranger  from  the 
cold  and  gloomy  North,  he  has  crossed  the 
Alps,  and  with  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim  jour 
neyed  to  the  Eternal  City.  He  dwells,  per 
haps,  upon  the  Pincian  Hill  ;  and  hardly  a 
house  there,  which  is  not  inhabited  by  artists 
from  foreign  lands.  The  very  room  he  lives 
in  has  been  their  abode  time  out  of  mind. 
Their  names  are  written  all  over  the  walls ; 
perhaps  some  further  record  of  them  is  left 
in  a  rough  sketch  upon  the  window-shutter, 
with  an  inscription  and  a  date.  These  things 
consecrate  the  place,  in  his  imagination.  Even 
these  names,  though  unknown  to  him,  are  not 
without  associations  in  his  mind. 


A  Romance  241 

"In  that  warm  latitude  he  rises  with  the 
day.  The  night-vapors  are  already  rolling 
away  ov.er  the  Campagna  seaward.  As  he 
looks  from  his  window,  above  and  beyond 
their  white  folds  he  recognizes  the  tremulous 
blue  sea  at  Ostia.  The  rising  sun  salutes 
Soracte,  —  his  own  beloved  mountain;  though 
no  longer  worshipped  there,  as  of  old.  Before 
him,  the  antique  house  of  Claude  Lorraine 
casts  its  long  brown  shadow  down  into  the 
heart  of  modern  Rome.  The  city  lies  still 
asleep  and  silent.  But  above  its  dark  roofs, 
more  than  two  hundred  steeples  catch  the 
sunshine  on  their  gilded  weathercocks.  Pres 
ently  the  bells  begin  to  ring,  and,  as  the  artist 
listens  to  their  pleasant  chimes,  he  knows  that 
in  each  of  those  churches,  over  the  high  altar, 
hangs  a  painting  by  some  great  master's  hand, 
whose  beauty  conies  between  him  and  heaven, 
so  that  he  cannot  pray,  but  wonder  only. 

"Among  these  works  of  art  he  passes  the 
day  ;  but  oftenest  in  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vati 
can.  Up  the  vast  marble  staircase,  through 
the  Corridor  Chiaramonti,  through  vestibules, 
galleries,  chambers,  he  passes  as  in  a  dream. 
All  are  filled  with  busts  and  statues,  or  painted 
in  daring  frescos.  What  forms  of  strength 


242  Hyperion 

and  beauty  !  what  glorious  creations  of  the 
human  mind  !  and  in  that  last  chamber  of  all, 
standing  alone  upon  his  pedestal,  the  Apollo 
found  at  Antium,  —  in  such  a  majestic  atti 
tude, —  with  such  a  noble  countenance,  life 
like,  god-like ! 

"Or  perhaps  he  passes  into  the  chambers 
of  the  painters  ;  but  goes  no  farther  than  the 
second.  For  in  the  middle  of  that  chamber 
a  large  painting  stands  upon  the  heavy  easel, 
as  if  unfinished,  though  more  than  three 
hundred  years  ago  the  great  artist  completed 
it,  and  then  laid  his  pencil  away  forever,  leav 
ing  this  last  benediction  to  the  world.  It  is 
the  Transfiguration  of  Christ,  by  Raphael. 
A  child  looks  not  at  the  stars  with  greater 
wonder  than  the  artist  at  this  painting.  He 
knows  how  many  studious  years  are  in  that 
picture.  He  knows  the  difficult  path  that 
leads  to  perfection,  having  himself  taken  some 
of  the  first  steps.  Thus  he  recalls  the  hour 
when  that  broad  canvas  was  first  stretched 
upon  its  frame,  and  Raphael  stood  before  it, 
and  laid  the  first  colors  upon  it,  and  beheld 
the  figures  one  by  one  born  into  life,  and 
looked  upon  the  work  of  his  own  hands  with 
a  smile,  that  it  should  have  succeeded  so  well 


A  Romance  243 

He  recalls,  too,  the  hour,  when,  the  task 
accomplished,  the  pencil  dropped  from  the 
master's  dying  hand,  and  his  eyes  closed  to 
open  on  a  more  glorious  transfiguration,  and 
at  length  the  dead  Raphael  lay  in  his  own 
studio,  before  this  wonderful  painting,  more 
glorious  than  any  conqueror  under  the  banners 
and  armorial  hatchments  of  his  funeral ! 

"  Think  you  that  such  sights  and  thoughts 
as  these  do  not  move  the  heart  of  a  young 
man  and  an  artist  ?  And  when  he  goes  forth 
into  the  open  air,  the  sun  is  going  down,  and 
the  gray  ruins  of  an  antique  world  receive 
him.  From  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  he  looks 
down  into  the  Forum,  or  towards  the  Coli 
seum  ;  or  westward  sees  the  last  sunshine 
strike  the  Bronze  Archangel  which  stands 
upon  the  Tomb  of  Adrian.  He  walks  amid 
a  world  of  Art  in  ruins.  The  very  street- 
lamps,  that  light  him  homeward,  burn  before 
some  painted  or  sculptured  image  of  the  Ma 
donna  !  What  wonder  is  it,  if  dreams  visit  him 
in  his  sleep,  —  nay,  if  his  whole  life  seem  to 
him  a  dream  ?  What  wonder,  if,  with  a  fever 
ish  heart  and  quick  hand,  he  strive  to  repro 
duce  those  dreams  in  marble  or  on  canvas  ? " 

Foolish  Paul  Flamming!  who  both  admired 


244  Hyperion 

and  praised  this  little  sketch,  and  yet  was  too 
blind  to  see  that  it  was  written  from  the  heart, 
and  not  from  the  imagination  !  Foolish  Paul 
Flemming !  who  thought  that  a  girl  of  twenty 
could  write  thus  without  a  reason !  Close 
upon  this  followed  another  pencil  sketch,  which 
he  likewise  read,  with  her  permission.  It  was 
this. 

"The  whole  period  of  the  Middle  Ages 
seems  very  strange  to  me.  At  times  I  cannot 
persuade  myself  that  such  things  could  have 
been  as  history  tells  us ;  that  such  a  strange 
world  was  a  part  of  our  world,  —  that  such 
a  strange  life  was  a  part  of  the  life  which 
seems  to  us,  who  are  living  it  now,  so  pas 
sionless  and  commonplace.  It  is  only  when 
I  stand  amid  ruined  castles,  that  look  at  me 
so  mournfully,  and  behold  the  heavy  armor 
of  old  knights,  hanging  upon  the  wainscot 
of  Gothic  chambers  ;  or  when  I  walk  amid  the 
aisles  of  some  dusky  minster,  whose  walls  are 
narrative  of  hoar  antiquity,  and  whose  very 
bells  have  been  baptized,  and  see  the  carved 
caken  stalls  in  the  choir,  where  so  many  gen 
erations  of  monks  have  sat  and  sung,  and  the 
tombs,  where  now  they  sleep  in  silence,  to 
awake  no  more  to  their  midnight  psalms  ;  — 


A  Romance  245 

it  is  only  at  such  times  that  the  history  of  the 
Middle  Ages  is  a  reality  to  me,  and  not  a 
passage  in  romance. 

"  Likewise  the  illuminated  manuscripts  of 
those  ages  have  something  of  this  power  of 
•making  the  dead  Past  a  living  Present  in  my 
mind.  What  curious  figures  are  emblazoned 
on  the  creaking  parchment,  making  its  yellow 
leaves  laugh  with  gay  colors  !  You  seem  to 
come  upon  them  unawares.  Their  faces  have 
an  expression  of  wonder.  They  seem  all  to 
be  just  startled  from  their  sleep  by  the  sound 
you  made  when  you  unloosed  the  brazen 
clasps,  and  opened  the  curiously  carved  oaken 
covers,  that  turn  on  hinges,  like  the  great 
gates  of  a  city.  To  the  building  of  that  city 
some  diligent  monk  gave  the  whole  of  a  long 
life.  With  what  strange  denizens  he  peopled 
\t  !  Adam  and  Eve  standing  under  a  tree, 
with  apples  in  their  hands  ;  —  the  patriarch 
Abraham,  with  a  tree  growing  out  of  his  body, 
and  his  descendants  sitting  like  owls  upon  its 
branches  ;  —  ladies  with  flowing  locks  of  gold  ; 
knights  in  armor,  with  most  fantastic,  long- 
toed  shoes  ;  jousts  and  tournaments  ;  and 
Minnesingers,  and  lovers  whose  heads  reach 
to  the  towers  where  their  ladies  sit ;  —  and  all 


246  Hyperion 

so  angular,  so  naive,  so  childlike,  —  all  in  such 
simple  attitudes,  with  such  great  eyes,  and 
holding  up  such  long,  lank  fingers!  —  These 
things  are  characteristic  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  persuade  me  of  the  truth  of  history." 

At  this  moment  Berkley  entered,  with  a 
Swiss  cottage,  which  he  had  bought  as  a  pres 
ent  for  somebody's  child  in  England  ;  and  a 
cane  with  a  chamois-horn  on  the  end  of  it, 
which  he  had  bought  as  a  present  for  himself. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  Flemming  had  been 
sorry  to  see  the  good-natured  man,  whose 
presence  now  interrupted  the  delightful  con 
versation  he  was  carrying  on  under  four  eyes 
with  Mary  Ashburton.  He  really  thought 
him  tedious,  and  wondered  it  had  never  oc 
curred  to  him  before.  Mrs.  Ashburton,  too, 
must  needs  lay  down  her  book  ;  and  the  con 
versation  became  general.  Strange  to  say, 
the  Swiss  dinner-hour  of  one  o'clock  did  not 
come  a  moment  too  soon  for  Flemming.  It 
did  not  even  occur  to  him  that  it  was  early ; 
for  he  was  seated  beside  Mary  Ashburton  ; 
and  at  dinner  one  can  say  so  much,  without 
being  overheard. 


A  Romance  247 


CHAPTER    VI. 

After   Dinner,   and   after    the    Manner 
of  the  Best  Critics 

WHEN  the  learned  Thomas  Diafoirus 
wooed  the  fair  Angelique,  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  medical  thesis,  and  pre 
sented  it  to  her,  as  the  first-fruits  of  his  genius ; 
and  at  the  same  time  invited  her,  with  her 
father's  permission,  to  attend  the  dissection  of 
a  woman,  upon  whom  he  was  to  lecture.  Paul 
Flemming  did  nearly  the  same  thing  ;  and  so 
often,  that  it  had  become  a  habit.  He  was 
continually  drawing  from  his  pocket  or  his 
memory  some  scrap  of  song  or  story  ;  and 
inviting  some  fair  Angelique,  either  with  her 
father's  permission  or  without,  to  attend  the 
dissection  of  an  author  upon  whom  he  was  to 
lecture.  He  soon  gave  proofs  of  this  to  Mary 
Ashburton. 

"  What  books  have  we  here  for  afternoon 
reading  ? "  said  Flemming,  taking  a  volume 
from  the  table,  when  they  had  returned  from 
the  dining-room.  "  O,  it  is  Uhland's  Poems. 


248  Hyperion 

Have  you  read  anything  of  his  ?  He  and 
Tieck  are  generally  considered  the  best  living 
poets  of  Germany.  They  dispute  the  palm  of 
superiority.  Let  me  give  you  a  lesson  in  Ger 
man  this  afternoon,  Miss  Ashburton  ;  so  that 
no  one  may  accuse  you  of  '  omitting  the  sweet 
benefit  of  time,  to  clothe  your  age  with  angel- 
like  perfection.'  I  have  opened  at  random 
upon  the  ballad  of  the  Black  Knight.  Do  you 
repeat  the  German  after  me,  and  I  will  trans 
late  to  you.  Pfingstcn  war,  das  Fcst  dct 
Frcudc  !  " 

"  I  should  never  persuade  my  unwilling  lips 
to  pronounce  such  sounds.  So  I  beg  you  not 
to  perplex  me  with  your  German,  but  read  me 
the  ballad  in  English." 

"  Well,  then,  listen.  I  will  improvise  a 
translation  for  your  own  particular  benefit. 

"'Twas  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 
Thus  began  the  king,  and  spake  : 
*  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hof burg's  walls 
A  luxuriant  spring  shall  break.' 

"  Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 
From  balcony  the  king  looked  on  ; 


A   Romance  249 

In  the  play  of  spears, 

Fell  all  the  cavaliers 

Before  the  monarch's  starwart  son. 

"  To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  knight. 
'  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon?  say.' 
'  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 
I  am  a  prince  of  mighty  sway  ! ' 

"  When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 
The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow,  — 
Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

*5  Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 
Torchlight  through  the  high  halls  glances, 
Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 
Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  : 

sw  Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fell  from  her  the  fair 
Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

"  To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  knight  and  every  dame. 
II* 


2  50  Hyperion 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  king  reclined, 
Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought 

"  Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 
'  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  ! ' 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 
*  O,  that  draught  was  very  cool  ! ' 

"  Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 
He  beholds  his  children  die. 

*• '  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  : 
Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  ! ' 
Spake  the  grim  guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 
'  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  ! ' " 

"  That  is  indeed  a  striking  ballad  ! "  said 
Miss  Ashburton,  "  but  rather  too  grim  and 
ghostly  for  this  dull  afternoon." 

"  It  begins  joyously  enough  with  the  feast 
of  Pentecost,  and  the  crimson  banners  at  the 
old  castle.  Then  the  contrast  is  well  managed 
The  knight  in  black  mail,  and  the  waving  in 


A  Romance  251 

of  the  mighty  shadow  in  the  dance,  and  the 
dropping  of  the  faded  flowers,  are  all  strikingly 
presented  to  the  imagination.  However,  it 
tells  its  own  story,  and  needs  no  explanation. 
Here  is  something  in  a  different  vein,  though 
still  melancholy.  The  Castle  by  the  Sea. 
Shall  I  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like."  • 

Flemming  read :  — 

"  '  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  '  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow.' 

"  '  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing. 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.' 

*'  'The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ? ' 

65 '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly  ; 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye. ' 


252  Hyperion 

"  *  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride, 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

"  '  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there, 

Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ? ' 

• 

"  '  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe  ; 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! ' 

"  How  do  you  like  that  ? " 

"  It  is  very  graceful,  and  pretty.  But 
Uhland  seems  to  leave  a  great  deal  to  his 
reader's  imagination.  All  his  readers  should 
be  poets  themselves,  or  they  will  hardly  com 
prehend  him.  I  confess,  I  hardly  understand 
the  passage  where  he  speaks  of  the  castle's 
stooping  downward  to  the  mirrored  wave 
below,  and  then  soaring  upward  into  the 
gleaming  sky.  I  suppose,  however,  he  wishes 
to  express  the  momentary  illusion  we  expe 
rience  when  beholding  a  perfect  reflection  of 
an  old  tower  in  the  sea.  We  look  at  it  as  if 
it  were  not  a  mere  shadow  in  the  water ;  and 
yet  the  real  tower  rises  far  above,  and  seems 


A  Romance  253 

to  float  in  the  crimson  evening  clouds.  Is 
that  the  meaning  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was.  To  me  it  is  all  a 
beautiful  cloud  landscape,  which  I  comprehend 
and  feel,  and  yet  should  find  some  difficulty 
perhaps  in  explaining." 

"  And  why  need  one  always  explain  ?  Some 
feelings  are  quite  untranslatable.  No  lan 
guage  has  yet  been  found  for  them.  They 
gleam  upon  us  beautifully  through  the  dim 
twilight  of  fancy,  and  yet,  when  we  bring 
them  close  to  us,  and  hold  them  up  to  the 
light  of  reason,  lose  their  beauty,  all  at  once  ; 
as  glowworms,  which  glimmer  with  such  a 
spiritual  light  in  the  shadows  of  evening, 
when  brought  in  where  the  candles  are  light 
ed,  are  found  to  be  only  worms,  like  so  many 
others." 

"  Very  true.  We  ought  sometimes  to  be 
content  with  feeling.  Here,  now,  is  an  ex 
quisite  piece,  which  soothes  one  like  the  fall 
of  evening  shadows,  —  like  the  dewy  coolness 
of  twilight  after  a  sultry  day.  I  shall  not  give 
you  a  bald  translation  of  my  own,  because  I 
have  laid  up  in  my  memory  another,  which, 
though  not  very  literal,  equals  the  original  in 
beauty.  Observe  how  finely  it  commences. 


254  Hyperion 

"  Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave, 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

"Then,  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried  ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

"  One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

"So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 
Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 
Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 

"Yet  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore  ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 

"Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee  ; 
Take,  —  I  give  it  willingly  ; 
For,  invisible  to  thee, 
Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me  !  " 

"  O,  that  is  beautiful,  —  beautiful  exceeding 
ly  !     Who  translated  it?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  wish  I  could  find  out 


A  Romance  255 

It  is  certainly  admirably  well  done  ;  though 
in  the  measure  of  the  original  there  is  some 
thing  like  the  rocking  motion  of  a  boat,  which 
is  not  preserved  in  the  translation." 

"And  is  Uhland  always  so  soothing  and 
spiritual  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  generally  looks  into  the  spirit-world. 
I  am  now  trying  to  find  here  a  little  poem  on 
the  Death  of  a  Country  Clergyman,  in  which 
he  introduces  a  striking  picture.  But  I  can 
not  turn  to  it.  No  matter.  He  describes  the 
spirit  of  the  good  old  man,  returning  to  earth 
on  a  bright  summer  morning,  and  standing 
amid  the  golden  corn  and  the  red  and  blue 
flowers,  and  mildly  greeting  the  reapers  as  of 
old.  But  there  is  nothing  morbid  in  Uhland's 
mind.  He  is  always  fresh  and  invigorating, 
like  a  breezy  morning.  In  this  he  differs 
entirely  from  such  writers  as  Salis  and  Mat- 
thisson." 

"  And  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Two  melancholy  gentlemen  to  whom  life 
was  only  a  Dismal  Swamp,  upon  whose  margin 
they  walked  with  cambric  handkerchiefs  in 
their  hands,  sobbing  and  sighing,  and  making 
signals  to  Death  to  come  and  ferry  them  over 
the  lake.  And  now  their  spirits  stand  in  the 


256  Hyperion 

green  fields  of  German  song  like  two  weeping- 
willows  bending  over  a  grave.  To  read  their 
poems  is  like  wandering  through  a  village 
church-yard  on  a  summer  evening,  reading  the 
inscriptions  upon  the  grave-stones,  and  recall 
ing  sweet  images  of  the  departed  ;  while  above 
YOU, 

*  Hark  !  in  the  holy  grove  of  palms, 

Where  the  stream  of  life  runs  free, 
Echoes,  in  the  angels'  psalms, 
Sister  spirit  !  hail  to  thee  ! ' ': 

"  How  musically  those  lines  flow  !  Are  they 
Matthisson's  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  they  do  indeed  flow  musically. 
I  wish  I  had  his  poems  here.  I  should  like  to 
read  to  you  his  Elegy  on  the  Ruins  of  an 
Ancient  Castle.  It  is  an  imitation  of  Gray's 
Elegy.  You  have  been  at  Baden-Baden  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  last  summer." 

"And  have  not  forgotten " 

"  The  old  castle  ?  Of  course  not.  What  a 
magnificent  ruin  it  is  ? " 

"  That  is  the  scene  of  Matthisson's  poem, 
and  seems  to  have  filled  the  melancholy  bard 
with  more  than  wonted  inspiration." 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  the  poem,  — 
I  remember  that  old  ruin  with  so  much  de 
light." 


A  Romance  257 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  a  translation  of  it  for 
you.  Instead  of  it,  I  will  give  you  a  sweet 
and  mournful  poem  from  Salis.  It  is  called 
The  Song  of  the  Silent  Land. 

"  Into  the  Sileitf  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  O,  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

"  Into  the  Siknt  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls  I     The  Future's  pledge  and  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  I 

"  O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Is  not  that  a  beautiful  poem  ?  " 

Mary  Ashburton  made  no  answer.  She  had 
turned  away  to  hide  her  tears.  Flemming  won- 

Q 


258  Hyperion 

dercd  that  Berkley  could  say  she  was  not  beau 
tiful.  Still  he  was  rather  pleased  than  offended 
at  it.  He  felt  at  that  moment  how  sweet  a 
thing  it  would  be  to  possess  one  who  should 
seem  beautiful  to  him  alone,  and  yet  to  him 
be  more  beautiful  than  all  the  world  beside! 
How  bright  the  world  became  to  him  at  that 
thought !  It  was  like  one  of  those  paintings 
in  which  all  the  light  streams  from  the  face  of 
the  Virgin.  O,  there  is  nothing  holier,  in  this 
life  of  ours,  than  the  first  consciousness  of  love, 
—  the  first  fluttering  of  its  silken  wings  ;  the 
first  rising  sound  and  breath  of  wind  which  is 
so  soon  to  sweep  through  the  soul,  to  purify  or 
to  destroy  ! 

Old  histories  tell  us  that  the  great  Emperor 
Charlemagne  stamped  his  edicts  with  the  hilt 
of  his  sword.  The  greater  Emperor,  Death, 
stamps  with  the  blade  ;  and  they  are  signed 
and  executed  with  the  same  stroke.  Flem- 
ming  received  that  night  a  letter  from  Heidel 
berg,  which  told  him  that  Einma  of  Ilmenau 
was  dead.  The  fate  of  this  poor  girl  affected 
him  deeply  ;  and  he  said  in  his  heart :  — 

"  Father  in  heaven  !  Why  was  the  lot  of 
this  weak  and  erring  child  so  hard  ?  What  had 
she  done,  to  be  so  l^mpted  in  her  weakness, 


A  Romance  259 

and  perish  ?  Why  didst  thou  suffer  her  gentle 
affections  to  lead  her  thus  astray  ? " 

And,  through  the  silence  of  the  awful  mid 
night,  the  voice  of  an  avalanche  answered 
from  the  distant  mountains,  and  seemed  to 
say:  — 

"  Peace  !  peace  !  Why  dost  thou  question 
God's  providence  ?  " 


260  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VII. 
Take  Care  ! 

is  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  with 
its  green  meadows  and  overhanging  cliffs. 
The  ruined  castle  of  Unspunnen  stands  like 
an  armed  warder  at  the  gate  of  the  enchanted 
land.  In  calm  serenity  the  snowy  mountains 
rise  beyond.  Fairer  than  the  Rock  of  Balma- 
rusa,  yon  frowning  precipice  looks  down  upon 
us  ;  and,  from  the  topmost  cliff,  the  white  pen 
non  of  the  Brook  of  Dust  shimmers  and  waves 
in  the  sunny  air ! 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful' morning  after  night- 
rain.  Every  dew-drop  and  rain-drop  had  a 
whole  heaven  within  it  ;  and  so  had  the  heart 
of  Paul  Flemming,  as,  with  Mrs.  Ashburton 
and  her  dark-eyed  daughter,  he  drove  up  the 
Valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  —  the  Valley  of 
Fountains-Only. 

"  How  beautiful  the  Jungfrau  looks  this 
morning ! "  exclaimed  he,  looking  at  Mary 
Ashburton. 


A   Romance  261 

She  thought  he  meant  the  mountain,  and 
assented.  But  he  meant  her  likewise! 

"  And  the  mountains  beyond,"  he  continued, 
"  the  Monk  and  the  Silver-horn,  the  Wetter- 
horn,  the  Schreck-horn,  and  the  Schwarz-horn, 
—  all  those  sublime  apostles  of  Nature,  whose 
sermons  are  avalanches  !  Did  you  ever  behold 
anything  more  grand  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  Mont  Blanc  is  more  grand,  when 
you  behold  it  from  the  hills  opposite.  It  was 
there  that  I  was  most  moved  by  the  magnifi 
cence  of  Swiss  scenery.  It  was  a  morning 
like  this  ;  and  the  clouds,  that  were  hovering 
about  on  their  huge,  shadowy  wings,  made  the 
scene  only  the  more  magnificent.  Before  me 
lay  the  whole  panorama  of  the  Alps  ;  pine 
forests  standing  dark  and  solemn  at  the  base 
of  the  mountains  ;  and  half-way  up  a  veil  of 
mist  ;  above  which  rose  the  snowy  summits 
and  sharp  needles  of  rock,  which  seemed  to 
float  in  the  air,  like  a  fairy  world.  Then  the 
glaciers  stood  on  either  side,  winding  down 
through  the  mountain  ravines  ;  and  high  above 
all  rose  the  white,  dome-like  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc.  And  ever  and  anon  from  the  shroud 
of  mist  came  the  awful  sound  of  an  avalanche, 
and  a  continual  roar,  as  of  the  wind  through 


262  Hyperion 

a  forest  of  pines,  filled  the  air.  It  was  the 
roar  of  the  Arve  and  Aveiron,  breaking  from 
their  icy  fountains.  Then  the  mists  began 
to  pass  away  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
firmament  were  rolling  together.  It  recalled 
to  my  mind  that  sublime  passage  in  the  Apoc 
alypse  :  '  I  saw  a  great  white  throne,  and 
him  that  sat  thereon,  before  whose  face  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  fled  away,  and  found 
no  place  ! '  —  I  cannot  believe  that  upon  this 
earth  there  is  a  more  magnificent  scene  !  " 

"  It  must  be  grand  indeed,"  replied  Flem- 
ming.  "  And  those  mighty  glaciers,  —  huge 
monsters  with  bristling  crests,  creeping  down 
into  the  valley  !  for  it  is  said  they  really 
move." 

"  Yes  ;  it  filled  me  with  a  strange  sensation 
of  awe  to  think  of  this.  They  seemed  to  me 
like  the  dragons  of  Northern  Romance,  which 
come  down  from  the  mountains  and  devour 
whole  villages.  A  little  hamlet  in  Chamouni 
was  once  abandoned  by  its  inhabitants,  ter 
rified  at  the  approach  of  the  icy  dragon. 
But  is  it  possible  you  have  never  been  at 
Chamouni  ?  " 

"  Never.  The  great  marvel  still  remains 
•anseen  by  me." 


A  Romance  263 

"  Then  how  can  you  linger  here  so  long  ? 
Were  I  in  your  place,  I  would  not  lose  an 
hour." 

These  words  passed  over  the  opening  blos 
soms  of  hope  in  the  soul  of  Flemming  like 
a  cold  wind  over  the  flowers  in  spring-time. 
He  bore  it  as  best  he  could,  and  changed  the 
subject. 

I  do  not  mean  to  describe  the  valley  of  Lau- 
terbrunnen,  nor  the  bright  day  passed  there. 
I  know  that  my  gentle  reader  is  blessed  with 
the  divine  gift  of  a  poetic  fancy  ;  and  can  see 
already  how  the  mountains  rise,  and  the  tor 
rents  fall,  and  the  beautiful  valley  lies  between  ; 
and  how,  along  the  dusty  road,  the  herdsman 
blows  his  horn,  and  travellers  come  and  go  in 
charabancs,  like  Punch  and  Judy  in  a  show-box. 
He  knows  already  how  romantic  ladies  sketch 
romantic  scenes  ;  and  how  cold  meat  tastes 
under  the  shadow  of  trees  ;  and  how  time  flies, 
when  we  are  in  love,  and  the  beloved  one  near. 
One  little  incident  1  must,  however,  mention, 
lest  his  fancy  should  not  suggest  it. 

Flemming  was  still  sitting  with  the  ladies 
on  the  green  slope  near  the  Staubbach,  or 
Brook  of  Dust,  when  a  young  man  clad  in 
green  came  down  the  valley.  It  was  a  Ger- 


264  Hyperion 

man  mechanic,  with  flaxen  ringlets  hanging 
over  his  shoulders,  and  a  guitar  in  his  hand. 
His  step  was  free  and  elastic,  and  his  counte 
nance  wore  the  joyous  expression  of  youth  and 
health.     He  approached  the  company  with  a 
courteous  salutation  ;  and,  after  the  manner 
of  travelling  apprentices,  asked  charity  with 
the    confident    air   of   one    unaccustomed    to 
refusal.     Nor  was  he  refused  in  this  instance. 
The  presence  of  those  we  love  makes  us  com 
passionate  and  generous.    Flemming  gave  him 
a  piece  of  gold  ;  and,  after  a  short  conversa 
tion,  he  seated  himself  at  a  little  distance  on 
the  grass,  and  began  to  play  and  sing.     Won 
derful  and  many  were  the  soft  accords  and 
plaintive    sounds   that  came   from   that  little 
instrument,  touched  by  the  clever  hand.    Every 
feeling  of  the  human  heart  seemed  to  find  an 
expression  there,  and  awaken  a  kindred  feel 
ing  in   the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  him. 
He  sang  strange   German    songs,   so   full  of 
longing,  and  of  pleasing  sadness,  and  hope, 
and  fear,  and  passionate  desire,  and  soul-sub 
duing  sorrow,  that  the  tears  came  into  Mary 
Ashburton's  eyes,  though  she  understood  not 
the   words  he  sang.     Then    his  countenance 
glowed  with  triumph,  and  he  beat  the  strings 
like  a  drum,  and  sang  :  — 


A  Romance  265 

' '  O,  how  the  drum  beats  so  loud  ! 
Close  beside  me  in  the  fight, 
My  dying  brother  says,  Good  Night ! 
And  the  cannon's  awful  breath 
Screams  the  loud  halloo  of  Death  ! 

And  the  drum, 

And  the  drum, 

Beats  so  loud  !  " 

Many  were  the  words  of  praise  when  the 
young  musician  ended ;  and,  as  he  rose  to 
depart,  they  still  entreated  for  one  song  more. 
Whereupon  he  played  a  lively  prelude  ;  and, 
looking  full  into  Flemming's  face,  sang,  with  a 
pleasant  smile  and  still  in  German,  this  little 
song :  — 

"  I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see  ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be. 
Beware  !      Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"  She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown  ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 
Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"  And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue  ; 
Take  care  ! 


266  Hyperion 

And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true. 
Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"  She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow  ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 
Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"  She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair  ; 

Take  care  ! 

It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear. 
Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  !  '* 

The  last  stanza  he  sung  in  a  laughing,  tri 
umphant  tone,  which  resounded  above  the  loud 
clang  of  his  guitar  like  the  jeering  laugh  of 
Till  Eulenspiegel  Then,  slinging  his  guitar 
over  his  shoulder,  he  took  oft'  his  green  cap, 
and  made  a  leg  to  the  ladies,  in  the  style  of 
Gil  Bias  ;  waved  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  walked 
quickly  down  the  valley,  singing,  "  Ade  !  Ade ! 
Ade ! " 


A  Romance  267 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

The  Fountain  of  Oblivion 

THE  power  of  magic  in  the  Middle  Ages 
created  monsters  who  followed  the  un 
happy  magician  everywhere.  The  power  of 
love  in  all  ages  creates  angels,  who  likewise 
follow  the  happy  or  unhappy  lover  everywhere, 
even  in  his  dreams.  By  such  an  angel  was 
Paul  Flemming  now  haunted,  both  when  he 
waked  and  when  he  slept.  He  walked  as  in 
a  dream,  and  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  pres 
ence  of  those  around  him.  A  sweet  face  looked 
at  him  from  every  page  of  every  book  he  read  ; 
and  it  was  the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton !  — 
a  sweet  voice  spake  to  him  in  every «6ound  he 
heard  ;  and  it  was  the  voice  of  Mary  Ashbur 
ton  !  Day  and  night  succeeded  each  other, 
with  pleasant  interchange  of  light  and  dark 
ness  ;  but  to  him  the  passing  of  time  was  only 
as  a  dream.  When  he  arose  in  the  morning, 
he  thought  only  of  her,  and  wondered  if  she 
were  yet  awake  ;  and  when  he  lay  down  at 


268  Hyperion 

night,  he  thought  only  of  her,  and  how,  like 
the  Lady  Christabel, 

"  Her  gentle  limbs  she  did  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness." 

And  the  livelong  day  he  was  with  her,  either 
in  reality  or  in  day-dreams  hardly  less  real ;  for, 
in  each  delirious  vision  of  his  waking  hours, 
her  beauteous  form  passed  like  the  form  of 
Beatrice  through  Dante's  heaven  ;  and,  as  he 
lay  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  heard  at 
times  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and 
the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  ascending  up  to 
heaven,  holy  wishes  and  prayers  ascended  with 
them  from  his  inmost  soul,  beseeching  that 
he  might  not  love  in  vain  !  And  whenever, 
in  silence  and  alone,  he  looked  into  the  silent, 
lonely  countenance  of  Night,  he  recalled  the 
impassioned  lines  of  Plato  :  - 

"  Lookest  t^ou  at  the  stars  ?     If  I  were  heaven, 
With  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  would  I  look  down  on  thee  !  " 

O,  how  beautiful  it  is  to  love  !  Even  thou, 
that  sneercst  at  this  page,  and  laughest  in  cold 
indifference  or  scorn,  if  others  are  near  thee, 
—  thou  too  must  acknowledge  its  truth,  when 
thou  art  alone  ;  and  confess  that  a  foolish  world 
is  prone  to  laugh  in  public  at  what  in  private 


A  Romance  269 

it  reveres,  as  one  of  the  highest  impulses  of 
our  nature,  —  namely,  Love  ! 

One  by  one  the  objects  of  our  affection 
depart  from  us.  But  our  affections  remain, 
and  like  vines  stretch  forth  their  broken, 
wounded  tendrils  for  support.  The  bleeding 
heart  needs  a  balm  to  heal  it ;  and  there  is 
none  but  the  love  of  its  kind,  —  none  but  the 
affection  of  a  human  heart !  Thus  the  wound 
ed,  broken  affections  of  Flemming  began  to  lift 
themselves  from  the  dust  and  cling  around  this 
new  object.  Days  and  weeks  passed ;  and, 
like  the  student  Crisostomo,  he  ceased  to  love, 
because  he  began  to  adore.  And  with  this 
adoration  mingled  the  prayer,  that,  in  that 
hour  when  the  world  is  still,  and  the  voices 
that  praise  are  mute,  and  reflection  cometh 
like  twilight,  and  the  maiden,  in  her  day-dreams, 
counted  the  number  of  her  friends,  some  voice 
in  the  sacred  silence  of  her  thoughts  might 
whisper  his  name  ! 

They  were  sitting  together  one  morning,  on 
the  green,  flowery  meadow,  under  the  ruins  of 
Burg  Unspunnen.  She  was  sketching  the 
ruins.  The  birds  were  singing,  one  and  all,  as 
if  there  were  no  aching  hearts,  no  sin  nor  sor 
row  in  the  world.  So  motionless  was  the 


270  Hyperion 

bright  air,  that  the  shadow  of  the  trees  lay 
engraven  on  the  grass.  The  distant  snow- 
peaks  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and  nothing  frowned, 
save  the  square  tower  of  the  old  ruin  above 
them. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  the  lady,  as  she 
stopped  to  rest  her  weary  fingers,  "what  a 
pity  it  is,  that  there  is  no  old  tradition  con 
nected  with  this  ruin  !  " 

"  I  will  make  you  one,  if  you  wish,"  said 
Flemming. 

"  Can  you  make  old  traditions  ? " 
"  O,  yes !  I  made  three,  the  other  day,  about 
the   Rhine,  and  one  very  old  one  about  the 
Black  Forest.     A  lady  with  dishevelled  hair ; 
a  robber  with  a  horrible  slouched  hat  ;  and  a 
night  storm  among  the  roaring  pines." 
"  Delightful !     Do  make  one  for  me." 
"With  the  greatest  pleasure.     Where  will 
you  have  the  scene  ?     Here,  or  in  the  Black 
Forest  ? " 

"  In  the  Black  Forest,  by  all  means  !  Begin." 
"  I  will  unite  this  ruin  and  the  forest  to 
gether.  But  first  promise  not  to  interrupt  me. 
If  you  snap  the  golden  threads  of  thought, 
they  will  float  away  on  the  air  like  the  film  of 
the  gossamer,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  re 
cover  them." 


A  Romance  271 

"  I  promise." 

"  Listen,  then,  to  the  tradition  of  THE  FOUN 
TAIN  OF  OBLIVION." 

"  Begin." 

Flemming  was  reclining  on  the  flowery  turf, 
at  the  lady's  feet,  looking  up  with  dreamy  eyes 
into  her  sweet  face,  and  then  into  the  leaves 
of  the  linden-trees  overhead. 

"  Gentle  lady !  Dost  thou  remember  the 
linden-trees  of  Biilach,  —  those  tall  and  stately 
trees,  with  velvet  down  upon  their  shining 
leaves,  and  rustic  benches  underneath  their 
overhanging  eaves  ?  A  leafy  dwelling,  fit  to 
be  the  home  of  elf  or  fairy,  where  first  I  told 
my  love  to  thee,  thou  cold  and  stately  Her- 
mione  !  A  little  peasant-girl  stood  near,  and 
listened  all  the  while,  with  eyes  of  wonder 
and  delight,  and  an  unconscious  smile,  to  hear 
the  stranger  still  speak  on,  in  accents  deep 
yet  mild,  —  none  else  was  with  us  in  that 
hour,  save  God  and  that  little  child ! " 

"  Why,  it  is  in  rhyme  ! " 

"  No,  no !  the  rhyme  is  only  in  your  imagi 
nation.  You  promised  not  to  interrupt  me, 
and  you  have  already  snapped  asunder  the 
gossamer  threads  of  as  sweet  a  dream  as  was 
ever  spun  from  a  poet's  brain." 


272  Hyperion 

"  It  certainly  did  rhyme  ! " 

"  This  was  the  reverie  of  the  student  Hie- 
ronymus,  as  he  sat  at  midnight  in  a  chamber  of 
this  old  tower,  with  his  hands  clasped  together, 
and  resting  upon  an  open  volume,  which  he 
should  have  been  reading.  His  pale  face  was 
raised,  and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  as  if 
the  spirit-world  were  open  before  him,  and 
some  beauteous  vision  were  standing  there, 
and  drawing  the  student's  soul  through  his 
eyes  up  into  heaven,  —  as  the  evening  sun, 
through  parting  summer-clouds,  seems  to  draw 
into  its  bosom  the  vapors  of  the  earth.  O, 
it  was  a  lovely  vision  !  I  can  sec  it  before  me 
now ! 

"  Near  the  student  stood  an  antique  bronze 
lamp,  with  strange  figures  carved  upon  it.  It 
was  a  magic  lamp,  which  once  belonged  to  the 
Arabian  astrologer  El  Geber,  in  Spain.  Its 
light  was  beautiful  as  the  light  of  stars  ;  and, 
night  after  night,  as  the  lonely  wight  sat  alone 
and  read  in  this  lofty  tower,  through  the  mist, 
and  murk,  and  dropping  rain,  it  streamed  out 
into  the  darkness,  and  was  seen  by  many 
wakeful  eyes.  To  the  poor  student  Hierony- 
mus  it  was  a  wonderful  Aladdin's  Lamp ;  for 
in  its  flame  a  Divinity  revealed  herself  unto 


A  Romance  273 

him,  and  showed  him  treasures.  Whenever 
he  opened  a  ponderous,  antiquated  tome,  it 
seemed  as  if  some  angel  opened  for  him  the 
gates  of  Paradise  ;  and  already  he  was  known 
in  the  land  as  Hieronymus  the  Learned. 

"  But,  alas  !  he  could  read  no  more.  The 
charm  was  broken.  Hour  after  hour  he 
passed  with  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and 
his  fair  eyes  gazing  at  vacancy.  What  could 
so  disturb  the  studies  of  this  melancholy 
wight  ?  Lady,  he  was  in  love  !  Have  you 
ever  been  in  love  ?  He  had  seen  the  face  of 
the  beautiful  Hermione ;  and  as,  when  we 
have  thoughtlessly  looked  at  the  sun,  our  daz 
zled  eyes,  though  closed,  behold  it  still,  so  he 
beheld  by  day  and  by  night  the  radiant  image 
of  her  upon  whom  he  had  too  rashly  gazed. 
Alas !  he  was  unhappy  ;  for  the  proud  Her 
mione  disdained  the  love  of  a  poor  student, 
whose  only  wealth  was  a  magic  lamp.  In 
marble  halls,  and  amid  the  gay  r-rowd  that 
worshipped  her,  she  had  almost  forgotten  that 
such  a  being  lived  as  the  student  Hieronymus. 
The  adoration  of  his  heart  had  been  to  her 
only  as  the  perfume  of  a  wild-flower  which  she 
had  carelessly  crushed  with  her  foot  in  pass 
ing.  But  he  had  lost  all ;  for  he  had  lost  the 


274  Hyperion 

quiet  of  his  thoughts  ;  and  his  agitated  sou) 
reflected  only  broken  and  distorted  images  of 
things.  The  world  laughed  at  the  poor  stu 
dent,  who,  in  his  threadbare  cassock,  dared  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  the  Lady  Hermione  ;  while  he 
sat  alone,  in  his  desolate  chamber,  and  suffered 
in  silence.  He  remembered  many  things 
which  he  would  fain  have  forgotten  ;  but 
which,  if  he  had  forgotten  them,  he  would  have 
wished  again  to  remember.  Such  were  the 
linden-trees  of  Biilach,  under  whose  pleasant 
shades  he  had  told  his  love  to  Hermione. 
This  was  the  scene  which  he  wished  most  to 
forget,  yet  loved  most  to  remember  ;  and  of 
this  he  was  now  dreaming,  with  his  hands 
clasped  upon  his  book,  and  that  music  in  his 
thoughts,  which  you,  lady,  mistook  for  rhyme. 
"  Suddenly,  with  a  melancholy  clang,  the 
convent  clock  struck  twelve.  It  roused  the 
student  Hieronymus  from  his  dream  ;  and 
rang  in  his  ears,  like  the  iron  hoofs  of  the 
steeds  of  Thne.  The  magic  hour  had  come, 
when  the  Divinity  of  the  lamp  most  willingly 
revealed  herself  to  her  votary.  The  bronze 
figures  seemed  alive  ;  a  white  cloud  rose  from 
the  flame  and  spread  itself  through  the  cham 
ber  ;  the  four  walls  dilated  into  magnificent 


A  Romance  275 

cloud-vistas ;  a  fragrance,  as  of  wild-flowers, 
rilled  the  air ;  and  a  dreamy  music,  like  dis 
tant,  sweet-chiming  bells,  announced  the  ap 
proach  of  the  midnight  Divinity.  Through 
his  streaming  tears  the  heart-broken  student 
beheld  her  once  more  descending  a  pass  in  the 
snowy  cloud-mountains,  as,  at  evening,  the 
dewy  Hesperus  comes  from  the  bosom  of  the 
mist,  and  assumes  his  station  in  the  sky.  At 
her  approach,  his  spirit  grew  more  calm  ;  foi 
her  presence  was,  to  his  feverish  heart,  like  a 
tropical  night,  —  beautiful  and  soothing  and 
invigorating.  At  length  she  stood  before  him, 
revealed  in  all  her  beauty  ;  and  he  compre 
hended  the  visible  language  of  her  sweet  but 
silent  lips,  which  seemed  to  say,  '  What  would 
the  student  Hieronymus  to-night  ? '  — '  Peace ! ' 
he  answered,  raising  his  clasped  hands,  and 
smiling  through  his  tears.  '  The  student  Hie 
ronymus  imploreth  peace  ! '  •  —  *  Then  go/  said 
the  spirit,  '  go  to  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion  in 
the  deepest  solitude  of  the  Black  Forest,  and 
cast  this  scroll  into  its  waters  ;  and  thou  shalt 
be  at  peace  once  more.'  Hieronymus  opened 
his  arms  to  embrace  the  Divinity,  for  her 
countenance  assumed  the  features  of  Her- 
mione ;  but  she  vanished  away ;  the  music 


276  Hyperion 

ceased  ;  the  gorgeous  cloud-land  sank  and  fell 
asunder ;  and  the  student  was  alone  within 
the  four  bare  walls  of  his  chamber.  As  he 
bowed  his  head  downward,  his  eye  fell  upon  a 
parchment  scroll,  which  was  lying  beside  the 
lamp.  Upon  it  was  written  only  the  name  of 
Hermione ! 

"The  next  morning  Hieronymus  put  the 
scroll  into  his  bosom,  and  went  his  way  in 
search  of  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion.  A  few 
days  brought  him  to  the  skirts  of  the  Black 
Forest.  He  entered,  not  without  a  feeling  of 
dread,  that  land  of  shadows  ;  and  passed  on 
ward,  under  melancholy  pines  and  cedars, 
whose  branches  grew  abroad  and  mingled  to 
gether,  and,  as  they  swayed  up  and  down, 
filled  the  air  with  solemn  twilight  and  a  sound 
of  sorrow.  As  he  advanced  into  the  forest, 
the  waving  moss  hung,  like  curtains,  from  the 
branches  overhead,  and  more  and  more  shut 
out  the  light  of  heaven  ;  and  he  knew  that  the 
Fountain  of  Oblivion  was  not  far  off.  Even 
then  the  sound  of  falling  waters  was  mingling 
with  the  roar  of  the  pines  above  him  ;  and  ere 
long  he  came  to  a  river,  moving  in  solemn 
majesty  through  the  forest,  and  falling  with  a 
dull,  leaden  sound  into  a  motionless  and  stag- 


nant  lake,  above  which  the  branches  of  the 
forest  met  and  mingled,  forming  perpetual 
nis:ht.  This  was  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion. 

o 

"  Upon  its  brink  the  student  paused,  and 
gazed  into  the  dark  waters  with  a  steadfast 
look.  They  were  limpid  waters,  dark  with 
shadows  only.  And  as  he  gazed,  he  beheld, 
far  down  in  their  silent  depths,  dim  and  ill- 
defined  outlines,  wavering  to  and  fro,  like  the 
folds  of  a  white  garment  in  the  twilight. 
Then  more  distinct  and  permanent  shapes 
arose,  —  shapes  familiar  to  his  mind,  yet  for 
gotten  and  remembered  again,  as  the  frag 
ments  of  a  dream  ;  till  at  length,  far,  far  below 
him,  he  beheld  the  great  City  of  the  Past,  with 
silent  marble  streets,  and  moss-grown  walls, 
and  spires  uprising  with  a  wave-like,  flickering 
motion. 

"  And  amid  the  crowd  that  thronged  those 
streets,  he  beheld  faces  once  familiar  and  dear 
to  him  ;  and  heard  sorrowful,  sweet  voices 
singing,  O,  forget  us  not !  forget  us  not !  and 
then  the  distant,  mournful  sound  of  funeral 
bells,  that  were  tolling  below,  in  the  City  of 
the  Past.  But  in  the  gardens  of  that  city 
there  were  children  playing,  and  among  them 
one  who  wore  his  features,  as  they  had  been 


2j&  Hyperion 

in  childhood.  He  was  leading  a  little  girl  by 
the  hand,  and  caressed  her  often,  and  adorned 
her  with  flowers.  Then,  like  a  dream,  the 
scene  changed,  and  the  boy  had  grown  older, 
and  stood  alone,  gazing  into  the  sky  ;  and  as 
he  gazed,  his  countenance  changed  again,  and 
Hieronymus  beheld  him,  as  if  it  had  been  his 
own  image  in  the  clear  water  ;  and  before  him 
stood  a  beauteous  maiden,  whose  face  was  like 
the  face  of  Hermione,  and  he  feared  lest  the 
scroll  had  fallen  into  the  water,  as  he  bent 
over  it. 

"Starting,  as  from  a  dream,  he  put  his  hand 
into  his  bosom,  and  breathed  freely  again, 
when  he  found  the  scroll  still  there.  He  drew 
it  forth,  and  read  the  blessed  name  of  Her 
mione,  and  the  city  beneath  him  vanished 
away,  and  the  air  grew  fragrant  as  with  the 
breath  of  May-flowers,  and  a  light  streamed 
through  the  shadowy  forest,  and  gleamed  upon 
the  lake  ;  and  the  student  Hieronymus  pressed 
the  dear  name  to  his  lips,  and  exclaimed,  with 
streaming  eyes:  '  O,  scorn  me  as  thou  wilt, 
still,  still  will  I  love  thee  ;  and  thy  name  shall 
irradiate  the  gloom  of  my  life,  and  make  the 
waters  of  Oblivion  smile!'  And  the  name 
was  no  longer  Hermione,  but  was  changed 


A  Romance  279 

to  Mary;    and   the  student   Hieronymus  —  is 
lying  at  your  feet !     O  gentle  Lady, 

'  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing  ;  after  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  st'rred  it  ?o  1     Alas  \  I  found  it  love.'  " 


280  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    IX. 

A    Talk  on  the  Stairs 

NO  !  I  will  not  describe  that  scene  ;  nor 
how  pale  the  stately  lady  sat  on  the 
border  of  the  green,  sunny  meadow !  The 
hearts  of  some  women  tremble  like  leaves  at 
every  breath  of  love  which  reaches  them,  and 
then  are  still  again.  Others,  like  the  ocean, 
are  moved  only  by  the  breath  of  a  storm,  and 
not  so  easily  lulled  to  rest.  And  such  was  the 
proud  heart  of  Mary  Ashburton.  It  had 
remained  unmoved  by  the  presence  of  this 
stranger  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  and 
his  voice  excited  in  it  no  emotion.  He  had 
deceived  himself!  Silently  they  walked  home 
ward  through  the  green  meadow.  The  very 
sunshine  was  sad  ;  and  the  rising  wind,  through 
the  old  ruin  above  them,  sounded  in  his  ears 
like  a  hollow  laugh  ! 

Flemming  went  straight  to  his  chamber. 
On  the  way,  he  passed  the  walnut-trees  under 
which  he  had  first  seen  the  face  of  Mary  Ash- 


A  Romance  281 

burton.  Involuntarily  he  closed  his  eyes. 
They  were  full  of  tears.  O,  there  are  places 
in  this  fair  world  which  we  never  wish  to  see 
again,  however  dear  they  may  be  to  us  !  The 
towers  of  the  old  Franciscan  convent  never 
looked  so  gloomily  as  then,  though  the  bright 
summer  sun  was  shining  full  upon  them. 

In  his  chamber  he  found  Berkley.  He  was 
looking  out  of  the  window,  whistling. 

"  This  evening  I  leave  Interlachen  forev 
er,"  said  Flemming,  rather  abruptly.  Berkley 
stared. 

"  Indeed  !  Pray  what  is  the  matter  ?  You 
look  as  pale  as  a  ghost !  " 

"  And  have  good  reason  to  look  pale,"  re 
plied  Flemming  bitterly.  "  Hoffmann  says,  in 
one  of  his  note-books,  that  on  the  eleventh 
of  March,  at  half  past  eight  o'clock,  precisely, 
he  was  an  ass.  That  is  what  I  was  this  morn 
ing,  at  half  past  ten  o'clock,  precisely,  and  am 
now,  and  I  suppose  always  shall  be." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  not.  He  then 
related  to  Berkley  the  whole  story,  from  begin 
ning  to  end. 

"  This  is  a  miserable  piece  of  business  ! " 
exclaimed  Berkley,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  Strange  enough !  And  yet  I  have  long 


282  Hyperion 

ceased  to  marvel  at  the  caprices  of  women. 
Did  not  Pan  captivate  the  chaste  Diana  ?  Did 
not  Titania  love  Nick  Bottom  with  his  ass's 
head.  Do  you  think  that  maidens'  eyes  are  no 
longer  touched  with  the  juice  of  love-in-idle 
ness  ?  Take  my  word  for  it,  she  is  in  love  with 
somebody  else.  There  must  be  some  reason 
for  this.  No  ;  women  never  have  any  reasons, 
except  their  will.  But  never  mind.  Keep  a 
stout  heart.  Care  killed  a  cat.  After  all,  — 
what  is  she  ?  Who  is  she  ?  Only  a " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  exclaimed  Flemming,  in 
great  excitement.  "  Not  one  word  more,  I 
beseech  you.  Do  not  think  to  console  me  by 
depreciating  her.  She  is  very  dear  to  me  still ; 
a  beautiful,  high-minded,  noble  woman." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Berkley  ;  "  that  is  the  way 
with  you  all,  you  young  men.  You  see  a  sweet 
face,  or  a  something,  you  know  not  what,  and 
flickering  reason  says,  Good  night ;  amen  to 
common  sense  !  The  imagination  invests  the 
beloved  object  with  a  thousand  superlative 
charms  ;  adorns  her  with  all  the  purple  and 
fine  linen,  all  the  rich  apparel  and  furniture, 
of  human  nature.  I  did  the  same  when  I  was 
young.  I  was  once  as  desperately  in  love  as 
you  are  now  ;  and  went  through  all  the 


A   Romance  283 

'  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations  ; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights.' 

I  adored  and  was  rejected.  'You  are  in  love 
with  certain  attributes,'  said  the  lady.  '  Damn 
your  attributes,  Madam/  said  I ;  '  I  know  noth 
ing  about  attributes.'  —  '  Sir,'  said  she,  with 
dignity,  '  you  have  been  drinking.'  —  So  we 
parted.  She  was  married  afterwards  to  another, 
who  knew  something  about  attributes,  I  sup 
pose.  I  have  seen  her  once  since,  and  only 
once.  She  had  a  baby  in  a  yellow  gown.  I 
hate  a  baby  in  a  yellow  gown.  How  glad  I  am 
she  did  not  marry  me  !  One  of  these  days,  you 
will  be  glad  you  have  been  rejected.  Take 
my  word  for  it." 

"All  that  does  not  prevent  my  lot  from 
being  a  very  melancholy  one  !  "  said  Flemming 
sadly. 

"  O,  never  mind  the  lot,"  cried  Berkley  laugh 
ing,  "  so  long  as  you  do  n't  get  Lot's  wife.  If 
the  cucumber  is  bitter,  throw  it  away,  as  the 
philosopher  Marcus  Antoninus  says,  in  his 
Meditations.  Forget  her,  and  all  will  be  as  if 
you  had  not  known  her." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  her,"  replied  Flemming, 


Hyperion 

rather  solemnly.  "  Not  my  pride,  but  my 
tions  are  wounded  ;  and  the  wound  is  too  deep 
ever  to  heal.  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  always. 
I  enter  no  more  into  the  world,  but  will  dwell 
only  in  the  world  of  my  own  thoughts.  All 
great  and  unusual  occurrences,  whether  of  joy 
or  sorrow,  lift  us  above  this  earth  ;  and  we 
should  do  well  always  to  preserve  this  eleva 
tion.  Hitherto  I  have  not  done  so.  But  now 
I  will  no  more  descend  ;  I  will  sit  apart  and 
above  the  world,  with  my  mournful,  yet  holy 
thoughts." 

v  "  Whew  !  You  had  better  go  into  society  ; 
the  whirl  and  delirium  will  cure  you  in  a  week. 
If 'you  find  a  lady  who  pleases  you  very  much, 
and  you  wish  to  marry  her,  and  she  will  not 
listen  to  such  a  horrid  thing,  I  see  but  one 
remedy,  which  is  to  find  another,  who  pleases 
you  more,  and  who  will  listen  to  it." 

"  No,  my  friend  ;  you  do  not  understand  my 
character,"  said  Flemming,  shaking  his  head. 
"  I  love  this  woman  with  a  deep  and  lasting 
affection.  I  shall  never  cease  to  love  her. 
This  may  be  madness  in  me  ;  but  so  it  is. 
Alas  and  alas  !  Paracelsus  of  old  wasted  life 
in  trying  to  discover  its  elixir,  which  after  all 
turned  out  to  be  idcuhol;  a.^d  instead  of  !;cii)'^ 


A  Romance  285 

made  immortal  upon  earth,  he  died  drunk  on 
the  floor  of  a  tavern.  The  like  happens  to  many 
of  us.  We  waste  our  best  years  in  distilling 
the  sweetest  flowers  of  life  into  love-potions, 
which  after  all  do  not  immortalize,  but  only 
intoxicate  us.  By  Heaven!  we  are  all  of  us 
mad." 

"  But  are  you  sure  the  case  is  utterly  hope 
less  ? " 

"Utterly!  utterly!" 

"  And  yet  I  perceive  you  have  not  laid  aside 
all  hope.  You  still  flatter  yourself  that  the 
lady's  heart  may  change.  The  great  secret  of 
happiness  consists  not  in  enjoying,  but  in  re 
nouncing.  But  it  is  hard,  very  hard.  Hope 
has  as  many  lives  as  a  cat  or  a  king.  I  dare 
say  you  have  heard  the  old  proverb,  '  The  king 
never  dies.'  But  perhaps  you  have  never 
heard  that,  at  the  court  of  Naples,  when  the 
dead  body  of  a  monarch  lies  in  state,  his  din 
ner  is  carried  up  to  him  as  usual,  and  the 
court  physician  tastes  it,  to  see  that  it  be  not 
poisoned,  and  then  the  servants  bear  it  out 
again,  saying,  'The  king  does  not  dine  to-day.' 
Hope  in  our  souls  is  king ;  and  we  also  say, 
'  The  king  never  dies.'  Even  when  in  reality 
he  lies  dead  within  us,  in  solemn  mockery  we 


286  Hyperion 

offer  him  his  accustomed  food,  but  are  con 
strained  to  say,  '  The  king  does  not  dine  to 
day.'  It  must  be  an  evil  day,  indeed,  when  a 
king  of  Naples  has  no  heart  for  his  dinner ! 
but  you  yourself  are  a  proof  that  the  king 
never  dies.  You  are  feeding  your  king,  aL 
though  you  say  he  is  dead." 

"  To  show  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  cherish 
hope,"  replied  Flemming,  "  I  shall  leave  Inter- 
lachen  to-morrow  morning.  I  am  going  to 
the  Tyrol." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Berkley  ;  "  there  is 
nothing  so  good  for  sorrow  as  rapid  motion  in 
the  open  air.  I  shall  go  with  you  ;  though 
probably  your  conversation  will  not  be  very 
various  ;  nothing  but  Edward  and  Kunigunde." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Go  to  Berlin,  and  you  will  find  out.  How 
ever,  jesting  apart,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  cheer 
you,  and  make  you  forget  the  Dark  Ladie,  and 
this  untoward  accident." 

"  Accident !  "  said  Flemming.  "  This  is  no 
accident,  but  God's  providence,  which  brought 
us  together,  to  punish  me  for  my  sins." 

"  O  my  friend,"  interrupted  Berkley,  "  if  you 
see  the  finger  of  Providence  so  distinctly  in 
every  act  of  your  life,  you  will  end  by  thinking 


A  Romance  287 

yourself  an  Apostle  and  Envoy  Extraordinary. 
I  see  nothing  so  very  uncommon  in  what  has 
happened  to  you." 

"  What !  not  when  our  souls  are  so  akin  to 
each  other  ?  when  we  seemed  so  formed  to  be 
together,  —  to  be  one  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  observed,"  replied  Berkley 
coldly,  "  that  those  who  are  of  kindred  souls 
rarely  wed  together  ;  almost  as  rarely  as  those 
who  are  akin  by  blood.  Therefore,  mad  lover, 
do  not  think  to  persuade  thyself  and  thy 
scornful  lady  that  you  have  kindred  souls  ; 
but  rather  the  contrary, — that  you  are  much 
unlike,  and  each  wanting  in  those  qualities 
which  most  mark  and  distinguish  the  other. 
Trust  me,  thy  courtship  will  then  be  more 
prosperous.  But  good  morning.  I  must  pre 
pare  for  this  sudden  journey." 

On  the  following  morning,  Flemming  and 
Berkley  started  on  their  way  to  Innsbruck, 
like  Huon  of  Bordeaux  and  Scherasmin  on 
their  way  to  Babylon.  Berkley's  self-assumed 
duty  was  to  console  his  companion ;  a  duty 
which  he  performed  like  an  ancient  Spanish 
Despenadora,  whose  business  was  to  attend 
the  sick,  and  put  her  elbow  into  the  stomach 
of  the  dying,  to  shorten  their  agony. 


BOOK    THE    FOURTH 


Mortal,  they  softly  say, 

Peace  to  thy  heart  ! 
We  too,  yes,  mortal, 

Have  been  as  thou  art ; 
Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

Seeing  in  part, 
Tried,  troubled,  tempted, 

Sustained,  —  as  thou  art. 

CAROLINE  SOUTHEYO 


BOOK    THE    FOURTH 

CHAPTER   I. 

A  Miserere 

IN  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  Malagigi,  the 
necromancer,  puts  all  the  company  to  sleep 
by  reading  to  them  from  a  book.  Some  books 
have  this  power  of  themselves  and  need  no 
necromancer.  Fearing,  Gentle  Reader,  that 
mine  may  be  of  this  kind,  I  have  provided 
these  introductory  chapters  from  time  to  time, 
like  stalls  or  Misereres  in  a  church,  with 
flowery  canopies  and  poppy-heads  over  them, 
where  thou  mayest  sit  down  and  sleep. 

No,  —  the  figure  is  not  a  bad  one.  This 
book  does  somewhat  resemble  a  minster,  in 
the  Romanesque  style,  with  pinnacles,  and  fly 
ing  buttresses,  and  roofs, 

"Gargoyled  with  greyhounds,  and  with  many  lions 
Made  of  fine  gold,  with  divers  suadry  dragons." 


292  Hyperion 

You  step  into  its  shade  and  coolness  out  of 
the  hot  streets  of  life ;  a  mysterious  light 
streams  through  the  painted  glass  of  the  man 
gold  windows,  staining  the  cusps  and  crum 
pled  leaves  of  the  window-shafts,  and  the 
cherubs  and  holy-water-stoups  below.  Here 
and  there  is  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ; 
and  other  images,  "  in  divers  vestures,  called 
weepers,  stand  in  housings  made  about  the 
tomb  "  ;  and  above  all  swells  the  vast  dome  of 
heaven,  with  its  star-mouldings,  and  the  flam 
ing  constellations,  like  the  mosaics  in  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's.  Have  you  not  heard  funeral 
psalms  from  the  chantry  ?  Have  you  not 
heard  the  sound  of  church-bells,  as  I  promised, 

—  mysterious  sounds  from  the  Past  and  Fu 
ture,  as  from  the  belfries  outside  the  cathedral, 

—  even  such  a  mournful,  mellow,  watery  peal 
of  bells,  as  is  heard   sometimes  at   sea,  from 
cities  afar  off  below  the  horizon  ? 

I  know  not  how  this  Romanesque,  and  at 
times  flamboyant,  style  of  architecture  may 
please  the  critics.  They  may  wish,  perhaps, 
that  I  had  omitted  some  of  my  many  orna 
ments,  my  arabesques,  and  roses,  and  fantastic 
spouts,  and  Holy-Roods  and  Galilee-steeples. 
But  would  it  then  have  been  Romanesque  ? 


A   Romance  293 

But  perhaps,  Gentle  Reader,  thou  art  one  of 
those  who  think  the  days  of  romance  gone  for 
ever.  Believe  it  not !  O,  believe  it  not !  Thou 
hast  at  this  moment  in  thy  heart  as  sweet  a 
romance  as  was  ever  written.  Thou  art  not 
less  a  woman,  because  thou  dost  not  sit  aloft 
in  a  tower,  with  a  tassel-gentle  on  thy  wrist. 
Thou  art  not  less  a  man,  because  thou  vvearest 
no  hauberk,  nor  mail-sark,  and  goest  not  on 
horseback  after  foolish  adventures.  Every  one 
has  a  romance  in  his  own  heart.  All  that  has 
blessed  or  awed  the  world  lies  there ;  and 

'  The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
lie  must  invoke  and  question,  —  not  dead  books, 
Not.  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers." 

Sooner  or  later,  some  passages  of  every 
one's  romance  must  be  written,  either  in 
words  or  actions.  They  will  proclaim  the 
truth  ;  for  Truth  is  thought  which  has  assumed 
its  appropriate  garments,  either  of  words  or 
actions ;  while  Falsehood  is  thought  which, 
disguised  in  words  or  actions  not  its  own, 
comes  before  the  blind  old  world,  as  Jacob 
came  before  the  patriarch  Isaac,  clothed  in  the 
goodly  raiment  of  his  brother  Esau.  And  the 
world,  like  the  patriarch,  is  often  deceived; 


294  Hyperion 

for  though  the  voice  is  Jacob's  voice,  yet  the 
hands  are  the  hands  of  Esau,  and  the  False 
takes  away  the  birthright  and  the  blessing 
from  the  True.  Hence  it  is  that  the  world  so 
often  lifts  up  its  voice  and  weeps. 

That  very  pleasing  and  fanciful  Chinese  ro 
mance,  the  Shadow  in  the  Water,  ends  with 
the  hero's  marrying  both  the  heroines.  I  hope 
my  gentle  reader  feels  curious  to  know  the 
end  of  this  romance,  which  is  a  shadow  upon 
the  earth  ;  and  see  whether  there  be  any  mar 
riage  at  all  in  it. 

That  is  the  very  point  I  am  now  thinking 
of,  as  I  sit  here  at  my  pleasant  chamber- 
window,  and  enjoy  the  balmy  air  of  a  bright 
summer  morning,  and  watch  the  motions  of 
the  golden  robin  that  sits  on  its  swinging  nest 
on  the  outermost  pendulous  branch  of  yonder 
elm.  The  broad  meadows  and  the  steel-blue 
river  remind  me  of  the  meadows  of  Unterseen 
and  the  river  Aar ;  and  beyond  them  rise 
magnificent  snow-white  clouds,  piled  up  like 
Alps.  Thus  the  shades  of  Washington  and 
William  Tell  seem  to  walk  together  on  these 
Elysian  Fields  ;  for  it  was  here  that,  in  days 
long  gone,  our  great  patriot  dwelt ;  and  yon 
der  clouds  so  much  resemble  the  snowy  Alps, 


A  Romance  295 

that  they  remind  me  irresistibly  of  the  Swiss. 
Noble  examples  of  a  high  purpose  and  a  fixed 
will!  Do  they  not  move,  Hyperion-like,  on 
high  ?  Were  they  not,  likewise,  sons  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  these 
summer  mornings  ;  nor  than  the  southern 
window  at  which  I  sit  and  write,  in  this  old 
mansion,  which  is  like  an  Italian  villa.  But 

0  this  lassitude,  —  this  weariness,  —  when  all 
around  me  is  so  bright !     I  have  this  morning 
a  singular  longing  for  flowers  ;  a  wish  to  stroll 
among   the  roses  and  carnations,  and  inhale 
their  breath,  as  if  it  would  revive  me.     I  wish 

1  knew    the    man   who   called    flowers    "  the 
fugitive   poetry   of  Nature."     From    this  dis 
tance,  from  these  scholastic  shades,  —  from  this 
leafy,  blossoming,  and  beautiful  Cambridge,  — 
I  stretch  forth  my  hand  to  grasp  his,  as  the 
hand   of    a   poet  !  —  Yes  ;    this    morning   I 
would  rather  stroll  with  him  among  the  gay 
flowers,  than   sit  here  and  write.      I  feel  so 
weary ! 

Old  men  with  their  staves,  says  the  Spanish 
poet,  are  ever  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
grave.  But  I  am  not  old.  The  Spanish  poet 
might  have  included  the  young  also.  —  No 


296  Hyperion 

matter  !  Courage,  and  fonvard  !  The  romance 
must  be  finished,  and  finished  soon. 

O  thou  poor  authorling !  Reach  a  little 
deeper  into  the  human  heart !  Touch  those 
strings,  —  touch  those  deeper  strings,  and 
more  boldly,  or  the  notes  will  die  away  like 
whispers,  and  no  ear  shall  hear  them,  save 
thine  own  !  And,  to  cheer  thy  solitary  labor, 
remember  that  the  secret  studies  of  an  author 
are  the  sunken  piers  upon  which  is  to  rest  the 
bridge  of  his  fame,  spanning  the  dark  waters 
of  Oblivion.  They  are  out  of  sight ;  but 
without  them  no  superstructure  can  stand 
secure  ! 

And  now,  Reader,  since  the  sermon  is  over, 
and  we  are  still  sitting  here  in  this  Miserere, 
let  us  read  aloud  a  page  from  the  old  parch 
ment  manuscript  on  the  lettern  before  us  ;  let 
us  sing  it  through  these  dusky  aisles,  like  a 
Gregorian  chant,  and  startle  the  sleeping  coiv 
gregation  ! 

"  I  have  read  of  the  great  river  Euripus, 
which  ebbeth  and  floweth  seven  times  a  day, 
and  with  such  violence  that  it  carrieth  ships 
upon  it  with  full  sail  directly  against  the 
ttind.  Seven  times  in  an  hour  ebbeth  and 
floweth  rash  opinion  in  the  torrent  of  in- 


A    Romance  297 

discreet  and  troublesome  apprehensions,  car 
rying  critic  calumny  and  squint-eyed  detrac 
tion  mainly  against  the  wind  of  wisdom  and 
judgment." 

In  secula  seculorum  1     Amen  I 


298  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    II. 
Curfew  Bells 

\  1  7ELCOME,  Disappointment !  Thy  hand 
*  V  is  cold  and  hard,  but  it  is  the  hand  of 
a  friend  !  Thy  voice  is  stern  and  harsh,  but 
it  is  the  voice  of  a  friend  !  O,  there  is  some 
thing  sublime  in  calm  endurance,  something 
sublime  in  the  resolute,  fixed  purpose  of  suf 
fering  without  complaining,  which  makes  dis 
appointment  oftentimes  better  than  success! 

The  Emperor  Isaac  Angelus  made  a  treaty 
with  Saladin,  and  tried  to  purchase  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  with  gold.  Richard  Lion-heart 
scorned  such  alliance,  and  sought  to  recover  it 
by  battle.  Thus  do  weak  minds  make  treaties 
with  the  passions  they  cannot  overcome,  and 
try  to  purchase  happiness  at  the  expense  of 
principle.  But  the  resolute  will  of  a  strong 
man  scorns  such  means,  and  struggles  nobly 
with  his  foe  to  achieve  great  deeds.  There 
fore,  whosoever  thou  art  that  sufferest,  try  not 
to  dissipate  thy  sorrow  by  the  breath  of  the 


A  Romance  299 

world,  nor  drown  its  voice  in  thoughtless  mer 
riment.  It  is  a  treacherous  peace  that  is  pur 
chased  by  indulgence.  Rather  take  this  sor 
row  to  thy  heart,  and  make  it  a  part  of  thee, 
and  it  shall  nourish  thee  till  thou  art  strong 
again. 

The  shadows  of  the  mind  are  like  those  of 
the  body.  In  the  morning  of  life,  they  all  lie 
behind  us  ;  at  noon,  we  trample  them  under 
foot ;  and  in  the  evening,  they  stretch  long, 
broad,  and  deepening  before  us.  Are  not, 
then,  the  sorrows  of  childhood  as  dark  as  those 
of  age  ?  Are  not  the  morning  shadows  of 
life  as  deep  and  broad  as  those  of  its  evening  ? 
Yes  ;  but  morning  shadows  soon  fade  away, 
while  those  of  evening  reach  forward  into  the 
night,  and  mingle  with  the  coming  darkness. 
Man  is  begotten  in  delight  and  born  in  pain  ; 
and  in  these  are  the  rapture  and  labor  of  his 
life  foreshadowed  from  the  beginning.  But 
the  life  of  man  upon  this  fair  earth  is  made 
up,  for  the  most  part,  of  little  pains  and  little 
pleasures.  The  great  wonder-flowers  bloom 
but  once  in  a  lifetime. 

A  week  had  already  elapsed  since  the  events 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter.  Paul  Flemming 
went  his  way,  a  melancholy  man,  "drinking 


3OO  Hyperion 

the  sweet  wormwood  of  his  sorrow."  He  did 
not  rail  at  Providence  and  call  it  fate,  but  suf 
fered  and  was  silent.  It  is  a  beautiful  trait  in 
the  lover's  character,  that  he  thinks  no  evil  of 
the  object  loved.  What  he  suffered  was  no 
swift  storm  of  feeling,  that  passes  away  with  a 
noise,  and  leaves  the  heart  clearer  ;  but  a  dark 
phantom  had  risen  up  in  the  clear  night,  and, 
like  that  of  Adamastor,  hid  the  stars  ;  and  if 
it  ever  vanished  away  for  a  season,  still  the 
deep  sound  of  the  moaning  main  would  be 
heard  afar,  through  many  a  dark  and  lonely 
hour.  And  thus  he  journeyed  on,  wrapped  in 
desponding  gloom,  and  mainly  heedless  of  all 
things  around  him.  His  mind  was  distem 
pered.  That  one  face  was  always  before  him  ; 
that  one  voice  was  forever  saying  :  — 

"  You  are  not  the  Magician." 

Painful  indeed  it  is  to  be  misunderstood 
and  undervalued  by  those  we  love.  But  this, 
too,  in  our  life,  must  we  learn  to  bear  without 
a  murmur  ;  for  it  is  a  tale  often  repeated. 

There  are  persons  in  this  world  to  whom  all 
tocal  associations  are  naught.  The  genius  of 
the  place  speaks  not  to  them.  Even  on  battle 
fields,  where  the  voice  of  this  genius  is  loudest, 
they  hear  only  the  sound  of  their  own  voices ; 


A  Romance  301 

they  meet  there  only  their  own  dull  and  pe 
dantic  thoughts,  as  the  old  grammarian  Bru- 
netto  Latini  met  on  the  plain  of  Roncesvalles 
a  poor  student  riding  on  a  bay  mule.  This 
was  not  always  the  case  with  Paul  Flemming, 
but  it  had  become  so  now.  He  felt  no  in 
terest  in  the  scenery  around  him.  He  hardly 
looked  at  it.  Even  the  difficult  mountain- 
passes,  where,  from  his  rocky  eyrie,  the  eagle- 
eyed  Tyrolese  peasant  had  watched  his  foe, 
and  the  roaring,  turbid  torrent  underneath, 
which  had  swallowed  up  the  bloody  corse,  that 
fell  from  the  rocks  like  a  crushed  worm,  awak 
ened  no  lively  emotion  in  his  breast.  All 
around  him  seemed  dreamy  and  vague  ;  all 
within  dim,  as  in  a  sun's  eclipse.  As  the 
moon,  whether  visible  or  invisible,  has  power 
over  the  tides  of  the  ocean,  so  the  face  of  that 
lady,  whether  present  or  absent,  had  power 
over  the  tides  of  his  soul ;  both  by  day  and 
night,  both  waking  and  sleeping.  In  every 
pale  face  and  dark  eye  he  saw  a  resemblance 
to  her  ;  and  what  the  day  denied  him  in  real 
ity  the  night  gave  him  in  dreams. 

"This  is  a  strange,  fantastic  world,"  said 
Berkley,  after  a  very  long  silence,  during  which 
the  two  travellers  had  been  sitting  each  in  his 


302  Hyperion  , 

corner  of  the  travelling-carriage,  wrapped  in 
his  own  reflections.  "A  very  strange,  fantastic 
world  ;  where  each  one  pursues  his  own  golden 
bubble,  and  laughs  at  his  neighbor  for  doing 
the  same.  I  have  been  thinking  how  a  moral 
Linnaeus  would  classify  our  race.  I  think  he 
would  divide  it,  —  not  as  Lord  Byron  did,  into 
two  great  classes,  the  bores  and  those  who  are 
bored,  —  but  into  three,  namely,  Happy  Men, 
Lucky  Dogs,  and  Miserable  Wretches.  This 
is  more  true  and  philosophical,  though  perhaps 
not  quite  so  comprehensive.  He  is  the  Happy 
Man,  who,  blessed  with  modest  ease,  a  wife 
and  children,  sits  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of 
his  family,  and  knows  no  other  ambition  than 
that  of  making  those  around  him  happy.  But 
the  Lucky  Dog  is  he,  who,  free  from  all  do 
mestic  cares,  saunters  up  and  down  his  room, 
in  morning  gown  and  slippers  ;  drums  on  the 
window,  of  a  rainy  day  ;  and,  as  he  stirs  his 
evening  fire,  snaps  his  fingers  at  the  world, 
and  says,  '  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or 
bad,  to  provide  for.'  I  had  a  friend  who  is  now 
no  more.  He  was  taken  away  in  the  bloom 

of  life,  by  a  very  rapid widow.     He  was 

by  birth  and  by  profession  a  beau,  —  born 
with  a  quizzing-glass  and  a  cane.  Cock  of  the 


A  Romance  3°3 

walk,  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  crowed  among 
the  feathered  tribe.  But,  alas !  a  fair,  white 
partlet  has  torn  his  crest  out,  and  he  shall 
crow  no  more.  In  the  evening  he  rocks  the 
cradle,  and  gets  up  in  the  night  when  the  child 
cries.  Like  a  Goth  of  the  Dark  Ages,  he 
consults  his  wife  on  all  mighty  matters,  and 
looks  upon  her  as  a  being  of  more  than  human 
goodness  and  wisdom.  In  short,  the  women 
all  say  he  is  a  very  domestic  man,  and  makes 
a  good  husband  ;  which,  under  the  rose,  is 
only  a  more  polite  way  of  saying  he  is  hen 
pecked.  He  is  a  Happy  Man.  I  have  an 
other  dear  friend,  who  is  a  sexagenary  bach 
elor.  He  has  one  of  those  well-oiled  disposi 
tions  which  turn  upon  the  hinges  of  the  world 
without  creaking.  The  heyday  of  life  is  over 
with  him  ;  but  his  old  age  is  sunny  and  chirp 
ing  ;  and  a  merry  heart  still  nestles  in  his 
tottering  frame,  like  a  swallow  that  builds  in 
a  tumble-down  chimney.  He  is  a  professed 
Squire  of  Dames.  The  rustle  of  a  silk  gown 
is  music  to  his  ears,  and  his  imagination  is 
continually  lantern-led  by  some  will-with-a- 
wisp  in  the  shape  of  a  lady's  stomacher.  In 
his  devotion  to  the  fair  sex  —  the  muslin,  as 
he  calls  it  —  he  is  the  gentle  flower  of  chiv* 


304  Hyperion 

airy.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how  quick  he 
strikes  into  the  scent  of  a  lady's  handkerchief. 
When  once  fairly  in  pursuit,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  throwing  him  off.  His  heart  looks 
out  at  his  eye ;  and  his  inward  delight  tingles 
down  to  the  tail  of  his  coat.  He  loves  to  bask 
in  the  sunshine  of  a  smile ;  when  he  can 
breathe  the  sweet  atmosphere  of  kid  gloves 
and  cambric  handkerchiefs,  his  soul  is  in  its 
element ;  and  his  supreme  delight  is  to  pass 
the  morning,  to  use  his  own  quaint  language, 
in  making  dodging  calls,  and  wriggling  round 
among  the  ladies  !  He  is  a  Lucky  Dog." 

"  And  as  a  specimen  of  the  class  of  Misera 
ble  Wretches,  I  suppose  you  will  take  me," 
said  Flemming,  making  an  effort  to  enter  into 
his  friend's  humor.  "  Certainly  I  am  wretched 
enough.  You  may  make  me  the'  stuffed  bear, 
—  the  specimen  of  this  class." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Berkley  ;  "you  are 
not  reduced  so  low.  He  only  is  utterly 
wretched/ who  is  the  slave  of  his  own  pas 
sions,  or  those  of  others.  This,  I  trust,  will 
never  be  your  condition.  Why  so  wan  and 
pale,  fond  lover  ?  Do  you  remember  Sir  John 
Suckling's  song  ? 


A  Romance  305 

6  Why  so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 

'  Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  if  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 

'  Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  cannot  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  ! 
Tf  of  herself  she  do  not  love, 
Nothing  will  make  her ! 
The  devil  take  her  ! ' 

How  do  you  like  that  ? "  * 

"  To  you  I  say  quit,  quit  for  shame  !  "  replied 
Flemming.  "  Why  quote  the  songs  of  that 
witty  and  licentious  age  ?  Have  you  no  better 
consolation  to  offer  me  ?  How  many,  many 
times  must  I  tell  you,  that  I  bear  the  lady  no 
ill-will  ?  I  do  not  blame  her  for  not  loving 
me.  I  desire  her  happiness,  even  at  the  sacri 
fice  of  my  own." 

"That  is  generous  in  you,  and  deserves  a 
better  fate.  But  you  are  so  figurative  in  all 
you  say,  that  a  stranger  would  think  you  had 
no  real  feeling,  and  only  fancied  yourself  in 
love?"  T 


306  Hyperion 

"  Expression  of  feeling  is  different  with  dif 
ferent  minds.  It  is  not  always  simple.  Some 
minds,  when  excited,  naturally  speak  in  figures 
and  similitudes.  They  do  not  on  that  account 
feel  less  deeply.  This  is  obvious  in  our  most 
common  modes  of  speech.  It  depends  upon 
the  individual." 

"  Kyrie  Eleyson  !  " 

"  Well,  abuse  my  figures  of  speech  as  much 
as  you  please.  What  I  insist  upon  is,  that  you 
shall  not  abuse  the  lady.  When  did  you  ever 
hear  me  breathe  a  whisper  against  her  ? " 

"Oho  !  Now  you  speak  like  Launce  to  his 
dog!" 

Their  conversation,  which  had  begun  so 
merrily,  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
rattling  peal  of  thunder,  that  announced  a 
near-approaching  storm.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  whole  heaven  black  with 
low,  trailing  clouds.  Still  blacker  the  storm 
came  sailing  up  majestically  from  the  south 
west,  with  almost  unbroken  volleys  of  distant 
thunder.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  storming 
a  cloud-redoubt ;  and  marched  onward  with 
dust,  and  the  green  banners  of  the  trees  flap 
ping  in  the  air,  and  heavy  cannonading,  and 
occasionally  an  explosion,  like  the  blowing  up 


A  Romance  307 

of  a  powder-wagon.  Mingled  with  this  was 
the  sound  of  thunder-bells  from  a  village  not 
far  off.  They  were  all  ringing  dolefully  to 
ward  off  the  thunderbolt.  At  the  entrance 
of  the  village  stood  a  large  wooden  crucifix, 
around  which  was  a  crowd  of  priests  and 
peasants,  kneeling  in  the  wet  grass,  by  the 
roadside,  with  their  hands  and  eyes  lifted  to 
heaven,  and  praying  for  rain.  Their  prayer 
was  soon  answered. 

The  travellers  drove  on  with  the  driving 
wind  and  rain.  They  had  come  from  Land- 
eck,  and  hoped  to  reach  Innsbruck  before 
midnight.  Night  closed  in,  and  Flemming  fell 
asleep  with  the  loud  storm  overhead,  and  at 
his  feet  the  roaring  Inn,  a  mountain  torrent 
leaping  onward  as  wild  and  restless  as  when 
it  first  sprang  from  its  cradle  in  the  solitudes 
of  Engaddin  ;  meet  emblem  of  himself,  thus 
rushing  through  the  night.  His  slumber  was 
long,  but  broken  ;  and  at  length  he  awoke  in 
terror  ;  for  he  heard  a  voice  pronounce  in  his 
ear  distinctly  these  words  :  — 

"  They  have  brought  the  dead  body." 
They  were  driving  by  a  churchyard  at  the 
entrance  of  a  town  ;  and  among  the  tombs  a 
dim  lamp  was  burning  before  an  image  of  the 


308  Hyperion 

Virgin.  It  had  a  most  unearthly  appearance. 
Flemming  almost  feared  to  see  the  congrega 
tion  of  the  dead  go  into  the  church  and  sing 
their  midnight  mass.  He  spoke  to  Berkley, 
but  received  no  answer ;  he  was  in  a  deep 
sleep. 

"  Then  it  was  only  a  dream,"  said  he  to  him 
self;  "yet  how  distinct  the  voice  was  !  O,  if 
we  had  spiritual  organs,  to  see  and  hear  things 
now  invisible  and  inaudible  to  us,  we  should 
behold  the  whole  air  filled  with  the  departing 
souls  of  that  vast  multitude  which  every  mo 
ment  dies, — should  behold  them  streaming 
up  like  thin  vapors  heavenward,  and  hear  the 
startling  blast  of  the  archangel's  trump  sound 
ing  incessant  through  the  universe,  and  pro 
claiming  the  awful  judgment-day  !  Truly,  the 
soul  departs  not  alone  on  its  last  journey,  but 
spirits  of  its  kind  attend  it,  when  not  minis 
tering  angels  ;  and  they  go  in  families  to  the 
unknown  land !  Neither  in  life  nor  in  death 
are  we  alone." 

He  slept  again  at  intervals  ;  and  at  length, 
though  long  after  midnight,  reached  Innsbruck 
between  sleeping  and  waking  ;  his  mind  filled 
with  dim  recollections  of  the  unspeakably  dis 
mal  night  journey ;  —  the  climbing  of  hills, 


A   Romance  309 

and  plunging  into  dark  ravines  ;  the  momen 
tary  rattling  of  the  wheels  over  paved  streets 
of  towns,  and  the  succeeding  hollow  rolling 
and  tramping  on  the  wet  earth  ;  the  blackness 
of  the  night  ;  the  thunder  and  lightning  and 
rain  ;  the  roar  of  waters,  leaping  through  deep 
chasms  by  the  roadside  ;  and  the  wind  through 
the  mountain-passes,  sounding  loud  and  long, 
like  the  inextinguishable  laughter  of  the  gods. 
The  travellers  on  the  morrow  lingered  not 
long  in  Innsbruck.  They  did  not  fail,  how 
ever,  to  visit  the  tomb  of  Maximilian  in  the 
Franciscan  Church  of  the  Holy  Cross,  and 
gaze  with  some  admiration  upon  the  twenty- 
eight  gigantic  bronze  statues  of  Godfrey  of 
Bouillon,  and  King  Arthur,  and  Ernest  the 
Iron-man,  and  Frederick  of  the  Empty  Pock 
ets,  kings  and  heroes,  and  others,  which  stand 
leaning  on  their  swords  between  the  columns 
of  the  church,  as  if  guarding  the  tomb  of  the 
dead.  These  statues  reminded  Flemming  of 
the  bronze  giants  which  strike  the  hours  on 
the  belfry  of  San  Basso,  in  Venice,  and  of  the 
flail-armed  monsters  that  guarded  the  gate 
way  of  Angulaffer's  castle  in  Oberon.  After 
gazing  awhile  at  these  motionless  sentinels, 
they  went  forth,  and  strolled  through  the  pub- 


3 1  o  Hyperion 

lie  gardens,  with  the  jagged  mountains  right 
over  their  heads,  and  all  around  them  tall, 
melancholy  pines,  like  Tyrolese  peasants,  with 
shaggy  hair ;  and  at  their  feet  the  mad  tor 
rent  of  the  Inn,  sweeping  with  turbid  waves 
through  the  midst  of  the  town.  In  the  after 
noon,  they  drove  on  towards  Salzburg,  through 
the  magnificent  mountain-passes  of  Waidering 
and  Unken. 


A  Romance  3 1 1 


CHAPTER    III. 

Shadows  on  the  Wall 

ON  the  following  morning,  Flemming 
awoke  in  a  chamber  of  the  Golden  Ship 
at  Salzburg,  just  as  the  clock  in  the  cathedral 
opposite  was  striking  ten.  The  window-shut 
ters  were  closed,  and  the  room  was  nearly 
dark.  He  was  lying  with  his  hands  crossed 
upon  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  looking  up  at 
the  white  curtains  overhead.  He  thought 
them  the  white  marble  canopy  of  a  tomb, 
and  himself  the  marble  statue  lying  beneath. 
When  the  clock  ceased  striking,  the  eight- 
and-tv/enty  gigantic  bronze  statues  from  the 
Church  of  Holy  Rood  in  Innsbruck  stalked 
into  the  chamber,  and  arranged  themselves 
along  the  walls,  which  spread  into  dimly 
lighted  aisles  and  arches.  On  the  painted 
windows  he  saw  Interlachen,  with  its  Fran 
ciscan  cloister,  and  the  Square  Tower  of  the 
ruins.  In  a  pendant,  overhead,  stood  the 
German  mechanic,  as  Saint  Vitus  ;  and  on  a 


3 1 2  Hyperion 

lavatory,  below,  sat  a  cherub,  with  the  form 
and  features  of  Berkley.  Then  the  organ- 
pipes  began  to  blow,  and  he  heard  the  voices 
of  an  invisible  choir  chanting.  And  anon  the 
gilded  gates  in  the  bronze  screen  before  the 
chancel  opened,  and  a  bridal  procession  passed 
through.  The  bride  was  clothed  in  the  garb 
of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  held  a  book  in  her 
hand,  with  velvet  covers,  and  golden  clasps. 
It  was  Mary  Ashburton.  She  looked  at  him 
as  she  passed.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  sweet  eyes.  Then  the  gates 
closed  again ;  and  one  of  the  oaken  poppy- 
heads  over  a  carved  stall,  in  the  shape  of 
an  owl,  flapped  its  broad  wings,  and  hooted, 
"  To-whit !  to-who  !  "  Then  the  whole  scene 
changed  ;  and  he  thought  himself  a  monk's- 
head  on  a  gutter-spout ;  and  it  rained  dis 
mally  ;  and  Berkley  was  standing  underneath 
with  an  umbrella,  laughing  ! 

In  other  words,  Flemming  was  in  a  raging 
fever,  and  delirious.  He  remained  in  this  state 
for  a  week.  The  first  thing  he  was  conscious 
of  was  hearing  the  doctor  say  to  Berkley  :  — 

"  The  crisis  is  passed.  I  now  consider  him 
out  of  danger." 

He  then  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep ;  the  wild 


A  Romance  313 

lever  had  swept  away  like  an  angry,  red  cloud, 
and  the  refreshing  summer  rain  began  to 
fall  like  dew  upon  the  parched  earth.  Still 
another  week,  and  Flemming  was  "  sitting 
clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind."  Berkley  had 
been  reading  to  him  ;  and  still  held  the  book 
in  his  hand,  with  his  fore-finger  between  the 
leaves.  It  was  a  volume  of  Hoffmann's  writ 
ings. 

"  How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  he,  "  that 
you  can  hardly  open  the  biography  of  any  Ger 
man  author,  but  you  will  find  it  begin  with  an 
account  of  his  grandfather!  It  will  tell  you 
how  the  venerable  old  man  walked  up  and 
down  the  garden  among  the  gay  flowers, 
wrapped  in  his  morning  gown,  which  is  like 
wise  covered  with  flowers,  and  perhaps  wear 
ing  on  his  head  a  little  velvet  cap.  Or  you 
will  find  him  sitting  by  the  chimney-corner  in 
the  great  chair,  smoking  his  ancestral  pipe, 
with  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  eyes  like  bird's-nests 
under  the  eaves  of  a  house,  and  a  mouth  like 
a  Nuremberg  nutcracker's.  The  future  poet 
climbs  upon  the  old  man's  knees.  His  genius 
is  not  recognized  yet.  He  is  thought  for  the 
most  part  a  dull  boy.  His  father  is  an  austere 
man,  or  perhaps  dead.  But  the  mother  is  still 


Hyperion 

there,  a  sickly,  saint-like  woman,  with  knit' 
ting-work  ;  and  an  elder  sister,  who  has  al 
ready  been  in  love,  and  wears  rings  on  her 
fingers  :  — 

*  Death's  heads,  and  such  mementoes, 
Her  grandmother  and  worm-eaten  aunts  left  to  her, 
To  tell  her  \\hat  her  beauty  must  arrive  at.' " 

"But  this  is  not  the  case  with  the  life  of 
Hoffmann,  if  I  recollect  right." 

"No,  not  precisely.  Instead  of  the  grand 
father,  we  have  the  grandmother,  a  stately 
dame,  who  has  long  since  shaken  hands  with 
the  vanities  of  life.  The  mother,  separated 
from  her  husband,  is  sick  in  mind  and  body, 
and  flits  to  and  fro  like  a  shadow.  Then  there 
is  an  affectionate  maiden  aunt ;  and  an  un 
cle,  a  retired  judge,  the  terror  of  little  boys, 
—  the  Giant  Despair  of  this  Doubting  Cas 
tle  in  Konigsberg  ;  and  occasionally  the  be 
nign  countenance  of  a  venerable  grand-uncle, 
whom  Lamotte  Fouquc  called  a  hero  of  the 
olden  time  in  morning  gown  and  slippers, 
looks  in  at  the  door  and  smiles.  In  the  upper 
story  of  the  same  house  lived  a  poor  boy  with 
his  mother,  who  was  so  far  crazed  as  to  believe 
herself  to  be  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  her  son 
the  Saviour  of  the  world.  \Yild  fancies,  iike< 


A  Romance  315 

wise,  were  to  sweep  through  the  brain  of  that 
child.  He  was  to  meet  Hoffmann  elsewhere 
and  be  his  friend  in  after  years,  though  as  yet 
they  knew  nothing  of  each  other.  This  was 
Werner,  who  has  made  some  noise  in  German 
literature  as  the  author  of  many  wild  Destiny- 
Dramas." 

"  Hoffmann  died,  I  believe,  in  Berlin." 

"  Yes.  He  left  Konigsberg  at  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  passed  the  next  eight  years  of  his 
life  in  the  Prussian-Polish  provinces,  where  he 
held  some  petty  office  under  government,  and 
took  to  himself  many  bad  habits  and  a  Polish 
wife.  After  this  he  was  Music-Director  at 
various  German  theatres,  and  led  a  wandering, 
wretched  life  for  ten  years.  He  then  went  to 
Berlin  as  Clerk  of  the  Exchange,  and  there 
remained  till  his  death,  which  took  place  some 
seven  or  eight  years  afterward." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  Berlin  during  his  lifetime,  and 
saw  him  frequently.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
first  time.  It  was  at  one  of  the  ^Esthetic 
Teas  given  by  a  literary  lady  unter  den  Linden. 
where  the  lions  were  fed  with  convenient  food, 
from  tea  and  bread  and  butter  up  to  oysters 
and  Rhine-wine.  During  the  evening,  my 


31 5  Hyperion 

attention  was  arrested  by  the  entrance  of  a 
strange  little  figure,  with  a  wild  head  of  brown 
hair.  His  eyes  were  bright  gray  ;  and  his  thin 
lips  closely  pressed  together  with  an  expres 
sion  of  not  unpleasing  irony.  This  strange- 
looking  personage  began  to  bow  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  with  quick,  nervous,  hinge- 
like  motions,  much  resembling  those  of  a 
marionnette.  He  had  a  hoarse  voice,  and 
such  a  rapid  utterance,  that,  although  I  under 
stand  German  well  enough  for  ordinary  pur 
poses,  I  could  not  make  out  one  half  he  said. 
Erelong  he  had  seated  himself  at  the  piano 
forte,  and  was  improvising  such  wild,  sweet 
fancies,  that  the  music  of  one's  dreams  is  not 
more  sweet  and  wild.  Then  suddenly  some 
painful  thought  seemed  to  pass  over  his  mind, 
as  if  he  imagined  that  he  was  there  to  amuse 
the  company.  He  rose  from  the  piano-forte, 
and  seated  himself  in  another  part  of  the 
room  ;  where  he  began  to  make  grimaces,  and 
talk  loud  while  others  were  singing.  Finally 
he  disappeared  like  a  hobgoblin,  laughing, '  Ho ! 
ho !  ho ! '  I  asked  a  person  beside  me  who  this 
strange  being  was.  '  That  is  Hoffmann/  was 
the  answer.  '  The  Devil ! '  said  I.  '  Yes/  con 
tinued  my  informant,  '  and  if  you  should  fol- 


A  Romance  3 1  7 

low  him  now,  you  would  see  him  plunge  into 
an  obscure  and  unfrequented  wine-cellar,  and 
there,  amid  boon  companions,  with  wine  and 
tobacco-smoke,  and  quirks  and  quibbles,  and 
quaint,  witty  sayings,  turn  the  dim  night  into 
glorious  day.' " 

"  What  a  strange  being  !  " 

"  I  once  saw  him  at  one  of  his  night- 
carouses.  He  was  sitting  in  his  glory,  at  the 
head  of  the  table  ;  not  stupidly  drunk,  but 
warmed  with  wine,  which  made  him  madly 
eloquent,  as  the  Devil's  Elixir  did  the  monk 
Medardus.  There,  in  the  full  tide  of  witty 
discourse,  or,  if  silent,  his  gray  hawk-eye  flash 
ing  from  beneath  his  matted  hair,  and  taking 
note  of  all  that  was  grotesque  in  the  company 
round  him,  sat  this  unfortunate  genius,  till  the 
day  began  to  dawn.  Then  he  found  his  way 
homeward,  having,  like  the  souls  of  the  envi 
ous  in  Purgatory,  his  eyelids  sewed  together 
with  iron  wire  ;  —  though  his  was  from  cham 
pagne  bottles.  At  such  hours  he  wrote  his 
wild,  fantastic  tales.  To  his  excited  fancy 
everything  assumed  a  spectral  look.  The 
shadows  of  familiar  things  about  him  stalked 
like  ghosts  through  the  haunted  chambers  of 
his  soul ;  and  the  old  portraits  on  the  wails 


3 1 8  Hyperion 

winked  at  him,  and  seemed  stepping  down 
from  their  frames  ;  till,  aghast  at  the  spectral 
throng  about  him,  he  would  call  his  wife  from 
her  bed,  to  sit  by  him  while  he  wrote." 

"  No  wonder  he  died  in  the  prime  of  life  !  " 

"  No.  The  only  wonder  is,  that  he  could 
have  followed  this  course  of  life  for  six  years. 
I  am  astonished  that  it  did  not  kill  him  sooner." 

"But  death  came  at  last  in  an  appalling 
shape." 

"  Yes  ;  his  forty-sixth  birthday  found  him 
sitting  at  home  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his 
friends  around  him.  But  the  rare  old  wine  — 
he  always  drank  the  best  —  touched  not  the 
sick  man's  lips  that  night.  His  wonted  humor 
was  gone.  Of  all  his  'jibes,  his  gambols,  his 
songs,  his  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were 
wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar,  not  one  now, 
to  .mock  his  own  grinning  !  —  quite  chap- 
fallen.'  The  conversation  was  of  death  and 
the  grave.  And  when  one  of  his  friends  said 
*iiat  life  was  not  the  highest  good,  Hoffmann 
interrupted  him,  exclaiming,  with  a  startling 
earnestness,  '  No,  no  !  Life,  life,  only  life  !  on 
any  condition  whatsoever  ! '  Five  months  after 
this  he  had  ceased  to  suffer,  because  he  had 
ceased  to  live.  He  died  piecemeal.  His  fee? 


A  Romance  319 

and  hands,  his  legs  and  arms,  gradually,  and 
in  succession,  became  motionless,  dead.  But 
his  spirit  was  not  dead,  nor  motionless  ;  and, 
through  the  solitary  day  or  sleepless  night, 
lying  in  his  bed,  he  dictated  to  an  amanuensis 
his  last  stories.  Strange  stories,  indeed,  were 
they  for  a  dying  man  to  write  !  Yet  such  de- 
light  did  he  take  in  dictating  them,  that  he 
said  to  his  friend  Hitzig,  that,  upon  the  whole, 
he  was  willing  to  give  up  forever  the  use  of 
his  hands,  if  he  could  but  preserve  the  power 
of  writing  by  dictation.  Such  was  his  love 
of  life,  —  of  what  he  called  the  sweet  habitude 
of  being ! " 

"  Was  it  not  he,  who  in  his  last  hours  ex 
pressed  such  a  longing  to  behold  the  green 
fields  once  more,  and  exclaimed,  *  Heaven  !  it 
is  already  summer,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  a 
single  green  tree '  ? " 

"  Yes,  that  was  Hoffmann.  Soon  afterwards 
he  died.  The  closing  scene  was  striking.  He 
gradually  lost  all  sensation,  though  his  mind 
remained  vigorous.  Feeling  no  more  pain,  he 
said  to  his  physician :  '  It  will  soon  be  over 
now.  I  feel  no  more  pain.'  He  thought  him 
self  well  again  ;  but  the  physician  knew  that 
he  was  dying,  and  said,  *  Yes,  it  will  soon  be 


320  Hyperion 

over ! '  The  next  morning  he  called  his  wife  to 
his  bedside,  and  begged  her  to  fold  his  motion 
less  hands  together.  Then,  as  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  she  heard  him  say,  4  We  must, 
then,  think  of  God,  also ! '  More  sorrowful 
words  than  these  have  seldom  fallen  from  the 
lips  of  man.  Shortly  afterwards  the  flame  of 
life  glared  up  within  him  ;  h^  said  he  was  well 
again  ;  that  in  the  evening  he  should  go  on 
with  the  story  he  was  writing ;  and  wished 
that  the  last  sentence  might  be  read  over  to 
him.  Shortly  after  this  they  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall,  and  he  died." 

"  And  thus  passed  to  its  account  a  human 
soul,  after  much  self-inflicted  suffering.  Let 
us  tread  lightly  upon  the  poet's  ashes.  For 
my  part,  I  confess  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
take  him  from  the  general  crowd  of  erring, 
sinful  men,  and  judge  him  harshly.  The  little 
I  have  seen  of  the  world,  and  know  of  the 
history  of  mankind,  teaches  me  to  look  upon 
the  errors  of  others  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger. 
When  I  take  the  history  of  one  poor  heart 
that  has  sinned  and  suffered,  and  represent  to 
myself  the  struggles  and  temptations  it  has 
passed,  —  the  brief  pulsations  of  joy,  the  fe 
verish  inquietude  of  hope  and  fear,  the  tears 


A  Romance  321 

of  regret,  the  feebleness  of  purpose,  the 
pressure  of  want,  the  desertion  of  friends,  the 
scorn  of  a  world  that  has  little  charity,  the 
desolation  of  the  soul's  sanctuary,  and  threat 
ening  voices  within,  —  health  gone,  happiness 
gone,  even  hope,  that  stays  longest  with  us, 
gone, —  I  have  little  heart  for  aught  else  than 
thankfulness  that  it  is  not  so  with  me,  and 
would  fain  leave  the  erring  soul  of  my  fellow- 
man  with  Him  from  whose  hands  it  came, 

'  Even  as  a  little  girl, 
Weeping  and  laughing  in  her  childish  sport.'  " 

"  You  are  right.  And  it  is  worth  a  student's 
while  to  observe  calmly  how  tobacco,  wine, 
and  midnight  did  their  work  like  fiends  upon 
the  delicate  frame  of  Hoffmann  ;  and  no  less 
thoroughly  upon  his  delicate  mind.  He  who 
drinks  beer  thinks  beer  ;  and  he  who  drinks 
wine  thinks  wine  ;  and  he  who  drinks  mid 
night  thinks  midnight.  He  was  a  man  of  rare 
intellect.  He  was  endowed  with  racy  humor, 
and  sarcastic  wit,  and  a  glorious  imagination. 
But  the  fire  of  his  genius  burned  not  peace 
fully  and  with  a  steady  flame  upon  the  hearth 
of  his  home.  It  was  a  glaring  and  irregular 
flame  ;  for  the  branches  that  he  fed  it  with 
14*  u 


322  Hyperion 

were  not  branches  from  the  Tree  of  Life, 
but  from  another  tree  that  grew  in  Paradise, 
and  they  were  wet  with  the  unhealthy  dews 
of  night,  and  more  unhealthy  wine  ;  and  thus, 
amid  smoke  and  ashes,  the  fire  burned  fitfully, 
and  went  out  with  a  glare  which  leaves  the 
beholder  blind." 

"  This  fire  within  him  was  a  Meleager's  fire 
brand  ;  and  when  it  burned  out,  he  died. 
And,  as  you  say,  marks  of  all  this  are  clearly 
visible  in  Hoffmann's  writings.  Indeed,  when 
I  read  his  strange  fancies,  it  is  with  me  as 
when  in  the  summer  night  I  hear  the  rising 
wind  among  the  trees,  and  the  branches  bow, 
and  beckon  with  their  long  fingers,  and  voices 
go  gibbering  and  mocking  through  the  air. 
A  feeling  of  awe  and  mysterious  dread  comes 
over  me.  I  wish  to  hear  the  sound  of  living 
voice  or  footstep  near  me,  —  to  see  a  friendly 
and  familiar  face.  In  truth,  if  it  be  late  at 
night,  the  reader  as  well  as  the  writer  of  these 
unearthly  fancies  would  fain  have  a  patient, 
meek-eyed  wife,  with  her  knitting-work,  at  his 
elbow." 

Berkley  smiled ;  but  Flemrning  continued 
without  noticing  the  smile,  though  he  knew 
what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of  his  friend :  — 


A  Romance  323 

"  The  life  and  writings  of  this  singular  being 
interest  me  in  a  high  degree.  Sometimes  we 
may  learn  more  from  a  man's  errors  than  from 
his  virtues.  Moreover,  from  the  common  sym 
pathies  of  our  nature,  souls  that  have  strug 
gled  and  suffered  are  dear  to  me.  Willingly 
do  I  recognize  their  brotherhood.  Scars  upon 
their  foreheads  do  not  so  deform  them  that 
they  cease  to  interest.  They  are  always  signs 
of  struggle  ;  though,  alas !  too  often,  likewise, 
of  defeat.  Seasons  of  unhealthy,  dreamy,  vague 
delight  are  followed  by  seasons  of  weariness 
and  darkness.  Where  are  then  the  bright 
fancies,  that,  amid  the  great  stillness  of  the 
night,  arise  like  stars  in  the  firmament  of  our 
souls  ?  The  morning  dawns,  the  light  of  com 
mon  day  shines  in  upon  us,  and  the  heavens 
are  without  a  star !  From  the  lives  of  such 
men  we  learn  that  mere  pleasant  sensations 
are  not  happiness  ;  that  sensual  pleasures  are 
to  be  drunk  sparingly,  and,  as  it  were,  from 
the  palm  of  the  hand ;  and  that  those  who 
bow  down  upon  their  knees  to  drink  of  these 
bright  streams  that  water  life  are  not  chosen 
of  God  either  to  overthrow  or  overcome ! " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  lenient  in  your  judg 
ment.  This  is  not  th^  usual  defect  of  critica 


324  Hyperion 

Like  Shakespeare's  samphire -gatherer,  they 
have  a  dreadful  trade !  and,  to  make  the  sim 
ile  complete,  they  ought  to  hang  for  it ! " 

"  Methinks  it  would  be  hard  to  hang  a  man 
for  the  sake  of  a  simile.  But  now  go  on  with 
the  Phantasy-Pieces  in  Callot's  manner." 

"  By  the  way,  who  was  this  Callot  ? " 

"  He  was  a  Lorraine  painter,  of  the  seven 
teenth  century,  celebrated  for  his  wild  and 
grotesque  conceptions.  These  sketches  of 
Hoffmann  are  imitations  of  his  style." 

"  And  which  of  them  shall  I  read  to  you 
next  ?  The  Ritter  Gllick  ;  or  the  Musical  Suf 
ferings  of  John  Kreisler ;  or  that  exquisite 
story  of  the  Golden  Jar,  wherein  is  depicted 
the  life  of  Poesy  vin  this  commonplace  world 
of  ours  ? " 

"  Read  the  shortest.  Read  Kreisler.  That 
will  amuse  me.  It  is  a  picture  of  his  own  suf 
ferings  at  the  ^Esthetic  Teas  in  Berlin,  sup 
posed  to  be  written  in  pencil  on  the  blank 
leaves  of  a  music-book." 

Thereupon  Berkley  leaned  back  in  his  ccucy- 
chair,  and  read  as  follows. 


A  Romance  325 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Sufferings  of  John  Kreisler 


"  '"T^HEY  are  all  gone  !  I  might  have  known 
JL  it  by  the  whispering,  shuffling,  cough 
ing,  humming  through  all  the  notes  of  the 
gamut.  It  was  a  true  swarm  of  bees,  leaving 
the  old  hive.  Gottlieb  has  lighted  fresh  can 
dles  for  me,  and  placed  a  bottle  of  Burgundy 
on  the  piano-forte.  I  can  play  no  more,  I  am 
perfectly  exhausted.  My  glorious  old  friend 
here  on  the  music-stand  is  to  blame  for  that. 
Again  he  has  borne  me  away  through  the  air, 
as  Mephistopheles  did  Faust,  and  so  high,  that 
I  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  the  little  men 
under  me,  though  I  dare  say  they  made  noise 
enough.  A  rascally,  worthless,  wasted  even 
ing  !  But  now  I  am  well  and  merry  !  How 
ever,  while  I  was  playing,  I  took  out  my  pen 
cil,  and  on  page  sixty-three,  under  the  last 
staff,  noted  down  a  couple  of  good  nourishes  in 
cipher  with  my  right  hand,  while  the  left  was 
struggling  away  in  the  torrent  of  sweet  sounds, 


326  Hyperion 

Upon  the  blank  page  at  the  end  I  go  on  writ 
ing.  I  leave  all  ciphers  and  sweet  sounds,  and 
with  true  delight,  like  a  sick  man  restored  to 
health,  who  can  never  stop  relating  what  he 
has  suffered,  I  note  down  here  circumstantially 
the  dire  agonies  of  this  evening's  tea-party. 
And  not  for  myself  alone,  but  likewise  for  all 
those  who  from  time  to  time  may  amuse  and 
edify  themselves  with  my  copy  of  John  Sebas 
tian  Bach's  Variations  for  the  Piano-forte,  pub 
lished  by  Nageli  in  Zurich,  and  who  find  my 
marks  at  the  end  of  the  thirtieth  variation, 
and,  led  on  by  the  great  Latin  Vcrte,  (I  will 
write  it  down  the  moment  I  get  through  this 
doleful  statement  of  grievances,)  turn  over  the 
leaf  and  read. 

"  They  will  'at  once  see  the  connection. 
They  know  that  the  Geheimerath  Rodelein's 
house  is  a  charming  house  to  visit  in,  and  that 
he  has  two  daughters,  of  whom  the  whole 
fashionable  world  proclaims  with  enthusiasm 
that  they  dance  like  goddesses,  speak  French 
like  angels,  and  play  and  sing  and  draw  like 
the  Muses.  The  Geheimerath  Rodelein  is  a 
rich  man.  At  his  quarterly  dinners  he  sends 
up  the  most  delicious  wines  and  richest  dishes. 
All  is  established  on  a  footing  of  the  greatest 


A  Romance  327 

elegance  ;  and  whoever  at  his  tea-parties  does 
not  amuse  himself  heavenly,  has  no  ton,  no 
esprit t  and  particularly  no  taste  for  the  fine 
arts.  It  is  with  an  eye  to  these,  that,  with  the 
tea,  punch,  wine,  ices,  etc.,  a  little  music  is 
always  served  up,  which,  like  the  other  refresh 
ments,  is  very  quietly  swallowed  by  the  fash 
ionable  world. 

"The  arrangements  are  as  follows.  After 
every  guest  has  had  time  enough  to  drink  as 
many  cups  of  tea  as  he  may  wish,  and  punch 
and  ices  have  been  handed  round  twice,  the 
servants  wheel  out  the  card-tables  for  the  elder 
and  more  solid  part  of  the  company,  who  had 
rather  play  cards  than  any  musical  instrument ; 
and,  in  fact,  this  kind  of  playing  does  not  make 
such  a  useless  noise  as  the  other,  and  you  hear 
only  the  clink  of  money. 

"  This  is  a  hint  for  the  younger  part  of  the 
company  to  pounce  upon  the  Misses  Rodelein. 
A  great  tumult  ensues  ;  in  the  midst  of  which 
you  can  distinguish  these  words :  — 

" '  Schones  Fraulcin !  do  not  refuse  us  the 
gratification  of  your  heavenly  talent !  O,  sing 
something!  that's  a  good  dear  !  —  impossible, 
—  bad  cold,  —  the  last  ball !  have  not  practised 
anything.  —  O,  do,  do,  we  beg  of  you,'  etc. 


328  Hyperion 

"  Meanwhile  Gottlieb  has  opened  the  piano 
forte,  and  placed  the  well-known  music-book 
on  the  stand  ;  and  from  the  card-table  cries 
the  respectable  mamma,  — 

"  '  Chantes  done,  mes  cnfants  ! ' 

"  That  is  the  cue  of  my  part.  I  place  myself 
at  the  piano-forte,  and  the  Rodeleins  are  led 
up  to  the  instrument  in  triumph. 

"  And  now  another  difficulty  arises.  Neither 
wishes  to  sing  first. 

" '  You  know,  dear  Nanette,  how  dreadfully 
hoarse  I  am.' 

" '  Why,  my  dear  Marie,  I  am  as  hoarse  as 
you  are.' 

"'I  sing  so  badly  ! — ' 

"  '  O  my  dear  child  ;  do  begin  ! ' 

"  My  suggestion,  (I  always  make  the  same !) 
that  they  should  both  begin  together  with  a 
duet,  is  loudly  applauded  ;  —  the  music-book 
is  thumbed  over,  and  the  leaf,  carefully  folded 
down,  is  at  length  found,  and  away  we  go  with 
Dolce  dclT  anima,  etc. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  the  talent  of  the  Misses 
Rodclein  is  not  the  smallest.  I  have  been  an 
instructor  here  only  five  years,  and  little  short 
of  two  years  in  the  Rodelein  family.  In  this 
short  time,  Fraulein  Nanette  has  made  such 


A  Romance  329 

progress,  that  a  tune,  which  she  has  heard  at 
the  theatre  only  ten  times,  and  has  played  on 
the  piano-forte,  at  farthest,  ten  times  more,  she 
will  sing  right  off,  so  that  you  know  in  a  mo 
ment  what  it  is.  Fraulein  Marie  catches  it 
at  the  eighth  time  ;  and  if  she  is  sometimes  a 
quarter  of  a  note  lower  than  the  piano-forte, 
after  all  it  is  very  tolerable,  considering  her 
pretty  little  doll-face,  and  very  passable  rosy 
lips. 

"  After  the  duet,  a  universal  chorus  of  ap 
plause  !  And  now  ariettas  and  duettinos  suc 
ceed  each  other,  and  right  merrily  I  hammer 
away  at  the  thousand-times-repeated  accom 
paniments.  During  the  singing,  the  Finanz- 
rathin  Eberstein,  by  coughing  and  humming, 
has  given  us  to  understand  that  she  also  sings. 
Fraulein  Nanette  says  :  — 

" '  But,  my  dear  Finanzrathin,  now  you  must 
let  us  hear  your  exquisite  voice.' 

"  A  new  tumult  arises.  She  has  a  bad  cold 
in  her  head,  —  she  does  not  know  anything 
by  heart !  Gottlieb  brings  straightway  two 
armfuls  of  music-books  ;  and  the  leaves  are 
turned  over  again  and  again.  First  she  thinks 
she  will  sing  Der  Plolle  Rache,  etc.,  then  Hebe 
sick,  etc.,  then  Ach,  Ich  hcbte,  etc.  In  this 


33°  Hyperion 

embarrassment,  I  propose,  Ein  Vdlchcn  auf  del 
Wiesc,  etc.  But  she  is  for  the  heroic  style; 
she  wants  to  make  a  display,  and  finally  selects 
Constanzc. 

"  O,  scream,  squeak,  mew,  gurgle,  groan, 
agonize,  quiver,  quaver,  just  as  much  as  you 
please,  Madam,  I  have  my  foot  on  the  fortis 
simo  pedal,  and  thunder  myself  deaf !  O  Satan, 
Satan  !  which  of  thy  goblins  damned  has  got 
into  this  throat,  pinching,  and  kicking,  and 
cuffing  the  tones  about  so  !  Four  strings  have 
snapped  already,  and  one  hammer  is  lamed  for 
life.  My  ears  ring  again,  —  my  head  hums,  — 
my  nerves  tremble  !  Have  all  the  harsh  note? 
from  the  cracked  trumpet  of  a  mountebank 
been  imprisoned  in  this  little  throat !  (BuJ 
this  excites  me,  — I  must  drink  a  glass  of  Bur- 
gundy.) 

"  The  applause  was  unbounded  ;  and  some 
one  observed,  that  the  Finanzrathin  and  Mozarl 
had  put  me  quite  into  a  blaze.  I  smiled  with 
downcast  eyes,  very  stupidly.  I  could  but 
acknowledge  it.  And  now  all  talents,  which 
hitherto  had  bloomed  unseen,  were  in  motion, 
wildly  flitting  to  and  fro.  They  were  bent 
upon  a  surfeit  of  music  ;  tuttis,  finales,  choruses, 
must  be  performed.  The  Canon icus  Kratzer 


A   Romance  331 

sings,  you  know,  a  heavenly  bass,  as  was  ob 
served  by  the  gentleman  yonder,  with  the 
head  of  Titus  Andronicus,  who  modestly  re 
marked  also,  that  he  himself  was  properly  only 
a  second-rate  tenor ;  but,  though  he  said 
it  who  should  not  say  it,  he  was  neverthe 
less  member  of  several  academies  of  music. 
Forthwith  preparations  are  made  for  the  first 
chorus  in  the  opera  of  Titus.  It  went  off 
gloriously.  The  Canonicus,  standing  close 
behind  me,  thundered  out  the  bass  over  my 
head,  as  if  he  were  singing  with  bass-drums 
and  trumpet  obligato  in  a  cathedral.  He 
struck  the  notes  gloriously  ;  but  in  his  hurry 
he  got  the  tempo  about  twice  too  slow.  How 
ever,  he  was  true  to  himself  at  least  in  this, 
that  through  the  whole  piece  he  dragged  along 
just  half  a  beat  behind  the  rest.  The  others 
showed  a  most  decided  penchant  for  the  an 
cient  Greek  music,  which,  as  is  well  known, 
having  nothing  to  do  with  harmony,  ran  on  in 
unison  or  monotone.  They  all  sang  treble, 
with  slight  variations,  caused  by  accidental 
rising  or  falling  of  the  voice,  say  some  quarter 
of  a  note. 

"  This    somewhat    noisy    affair   produced    a 
universal  tragic  state  of  feeling,  namely  a  kind 


332  Hyperion 

of  terror,  even  at  the  card-tables,  which  for 
the  moment  could  no  longer,  as  before,  chime 
in  melodramatically,  by  weaving  into  the  music 
sundry  exclamations  ;  as,  for  instance  :  — 

"  '  O  !  I  loved,  —  eight  and  forty,  —  was 
so  happy,  —  I  pass,  — -  then  I  knew  not,  — 
whist,  —  pangs  of  love,  —  follow  suit,'  etc. 
—  It  has  a  very  pretty  effect.  (I  fill  my 
glass.) 

"That  was  the  highest  point  of  the  musi 
cal  exhibition  this  evening.  '  Now  it  is  all 
over,'  thought  I  to  myself.  I  shut  the  book, 
and  got  up  from  the  piano-forte.  But  the 
Baron,  my  ancient  tenor,  came  up  to  me  and 
said  :  — 

'  My  dear  Herr  Capellmeister,  they  say 
you  play  the  most  exquisite  voluntaries  !  Now 
do  play  us  one  ;  only  a  short  one,  I  entreat 
you ! ' 

"  I  answered  very  dryly,  that  to-day  my  fan 
tasies  had  all  gone  a  wool-gathering ;  and 
while  we  are  talking  about  it,  a  devil,  in  tho 
shape  of  a  dandy,  with  two  waistcoats,  had 
smelt  out  Bach's  Variations,  which  were  lying 
under  my  hat  in  the  next  room.  He  thinks 
they  are  merely  little  variations,  such  as  Nd 
(or  mio  iwn  pin  scnto,  or  Ah,  vous  dirai-je, 


A   Romance  333 

maman,  etc.,  and  insists  upon  it  that  I  shall 
play  them.  I  try  to  excuse  myself,  but  they 
all  attack  me.  So  then,  '  Listen,  and  burst 
with  ennui/  think  I  to  myself,  —  and  begin  to 
work  away. 

"  When  I  had  got  to  variation  number  three, 
several  ladies  departed,  followed  by  the  gen 
tleman  with  the  Titus-Andronicus  head.  The 
Rodeleins,  as  their  teacher  was  playing,  stood 
it  out,  though  not  without  difficulty,  to  number 
twelve.  Number  fifteen  made  the  man  with 
two  waistcoats  take  to  his  heels.  Out  of  most 
excessive  politeness,  the  Baron  stayed  till  num 
ber  thirty,  and  drank  up  all  the  punch  which 
Gottlieb  placed  on  the  piano-forte  for  me. 

"  I  should  have  brought  all  to  a  happy  con 
clusion,  but,  alas !  this  number  thirty  —  the 
theme  —  tore  me  irresistibly  away.  Suddenly 
the  quarto  leaves  spread  out  to  a  gigantic  folio, 
on  which  a  thousand  imitations  and  develop 
ments  of  the  theme  stood  written,  and  I  could 
not  choose  but  play  them.  The  notes  became 
alive,  and  glimmered  and  hopped  all  round 
about  me,  —  an  electric  fire  streamed  through 
the  tips  of  my  fingers  into  the  keys,  —  the 
spirit  from  which  it  gushed  forth  spread  his 
broad  wings  over  my  soul,  the  whole  room  waq 


334  Hyperion 

filled  with  a  thick  mist,  in  which  the  candles 
burned  dim,  —  and  through  which  peered  forth 
now  a  nose,  and  anon  a  pair  of  eyes,  and  then 
suddenly  vanished  away  again.  And  thus  it 
came  to  pass,  that  I  was  left  alone  with  my 
Sebastian  Bach,  by  Gottlieb  attended,  as  by  a 
familiar  spirit.  (Your  good  health,  Sir.) 

"  Is  an  honest  musician  to  be  tormented  with 
music,  as  I  have  been  to-day,  and  am  so  often 
tormented  ?  Verily,  no  art  is  so  damnably 
abused  as  this  same  glorious,  holy  Musica, 
who,  in  her  delicate  being,  is  so  easily  dese 
crated.  Have  you  real  talent,  —  real  feeling 
for  art  ?  Then  study  music,  —  do  something 
worthy  of  the  art,  —  and  dedicate  your  whole 
soul  to  the  beloved  saint.  If  without  this  you 
have  a  fancy  for  quavers  and  demi-semi-qua- 
vers,  practise  for  yourself  and  by  yourself,  and 
torment  not  therewith  the  Capellmeister  Kreis- 
ler  and  others. 

"  Well,  now  I  might  go  home,  and  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  my  sonata  for  the  piano 
forte  ;  but  it  is  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  and,  with 
al,  a  beautiful  summer  night.  I  will  lay  any 
wager,  that  at  my  neighbor's,  the  Oberjager- 
meister,  the  young  ladies  are  sitting  at  the  win 
dow,  screaming  down  into  the  street,  for  the 


A  Romance  335 

twentieth  time,  with  harsh,  sharp,  piercing 
voices,  '  When  thine  eye  is  beaming,  love,'  — 
but  only  the  first  stanza,  over  and  over  again. 
Obliquely  across  the  way,  some  one  is  murder 
ing  the  flute,  and  has,  moreover,  lungs  like  Ra- 
meau's  nephew  ;  and,  in  notes  of  'linked  sweet 
ness  long  drawn  out,'  his  neighbor  is  trying 
acoustic  experiments  on  the  French  horn. 
The  numerous  dogs  of  the  neighborhood  are 
growing  unquiet,  and  my  landlord's  cat,  inspired 
by  that  sweet  duet,  is  making,  by  my  window, 
(for,  of  course,  my  musico-poetic  laboratory  is 
an  attic,)  certain  tender  confessions,  —  upward 
through  the  whole  chromatic  scale,  soft  com 
plaining,  to  the  neighbor's  tabby,  with  whom 
\ie  has  been  in  love  since  March  last !  Till 
this  is  all  fairly  over,  I  think  I  will  sit  quietly 
here.  Besides,  there  is  still  blank  paper  and 
Burgundy  left,  of  which  I  forthwith  take  a 
sip. 

"  There  is,  as  I  have  heard,  an  ancient  law, 
forbidding  those  who  follow  any  noisy  handi 
craft  from  living  near  literary  men.  Should 
not  then  musical  composers,  poor,  and  hard 
beset,  and  who,  moreover,  are  forced  to  coin 
their  inspiration  into  gold  to  spin  out  the 
thread  of  life  withal,  be  allowed  to  apply  this 


33^  Hyperion 

law  to  themselves,  and  banish  out  of  the  neigh 
borhood  all  ballad-singers  and  bagpipers  ? 
What  would  a  painter  say,  while  transferring 
to  his  canvas  a  form  of  ideal  beauty,  if  you 
should  hold  up  before  him  all  manner  of  wild 
faces  and  ugly  masks?  He  might  shuf:  his 
eyes,  and  in  this  way,  at  least,  quietly  follow 
out  the  images  of  fancy.  Cotton,  in  one's  ears, 
is  of  no  use  ;  one  still  hears  the  dreadful  mas 
sacre.  And  then  the  idea,  —  the  bare  idea, 
'  Now  they  are  going  to  sing,  —  now  the  horn 
strikes  up,'  —  is  enough  to  send  one's  sublimest 
thoughts  to  the  very  Devil" 


A  Romance  337 


CHAPTER    V. 
Saint  Gilgen 

IT  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  when 
Flemming  and  Berkley  left  behind  them 
the  cloud-capped  hills  of  Salzburg,  and  jour 
neyed  eastward  towards  the  lakes.  The  land 
scape  around  them  was  one  to  attune  their 
souls  to  hoV  musings.  Field,  forest,  hill  and 
vale,  fresh  air,  and  the  perfume  of  clover-fields 
and  new-mown  hay,  birds  singing,  and  the 
sound  of  village  bells,  and  the  moving  breeze 
among  the  branches,  —  no  laborers  in  the 
fields,  but  peasants  on  their  way  to  church, 
coming  across  the  green  pastures,  with  roses 
in  their  hats,  —  the  beauty  and  quiet  of  the 
holy  day  of  rest,  —  all,  all  in  earth  and  air 
breathed  upon  the  soul  like  a  benediction. 

They  stopped  to  change  horses  at  Hof,  a 
handful  of  houses  on  the  brow  of  a  breezy 
hill,  the  church  and  inn  standing  opposite  to 
each  other,  and  nothing  between  them  but  the 
dusty  road,  and  the  churchyard,  with  its  iror 
15  v 


Hyperion 


crosses,  and  the  fluttering  tinsel  of  the  funeral 
garlands.  In  the  churchyard,  and  at  the  inn- 
door,  were  groups  of  peasants,  waiting  for 
divine  sendee  to  begin.  They  were  clothed 
in  their  holiday  dresses.  The  men  wore 
breeches  and  long  boots,  and  frock-coats  with 
large  metal  buttons  ;  the  women,  straw  hats, 
and  gay  calico  gowns  with  short  waists  and 
scant  folds.  They  were  adorned  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  great  trumpery  ornaments,  and  re 
minded  Flemming  of  the  Indians  in  the  fron 
tier  villages  of  America.  Near  the  church 
yard-gate  was  a  booth,  filled  with  flaunting 
calicoes  ;  and  opposite  sat  an  old  woman 
behind  a  table,  which  was  loaded  with  ginger 
bread.  She  had  a  roulette  at  her  elbow, 
where  the  peasants  risked  a  kreutzer  for  a 
cake.  On  other  tables,  cases  of  knives, 
scythes,  reaping-hooks,  and  other  implements 
of  husbandry  were  offered  for  sale. 

The  travellers  continued  their  journey,  with 
out  stopping  to  hear  mass.  In  the  course  of 
the  forenoon,  they  came  suddenly  in  sight  of 
the  beautiful  lake  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  lying 
deep  beneath  them  in  the  va]ley.  On  it* 
shore,  under  them,  sat  the  wlrte  viUrge  of 
Saint  Gilgen,  like  a  swan  upon  it^  -e^dy  nest 


.   A  Romance  339 

They  seemed  to  have  taken  it  unawares,  and 
as  it  were  clapped  their  hands  upon  it  in  its 
sleep,  and  almost  expected  to  see  it  spread  its 
broad  snow-white  wings  and  fly  away.  The 
whole  scene  was  one  of  surpassing  beauty. 

They  drove  leisurely  down  the  steep  hill, 
and  stopped  at  the  village  inn.  Before  the 
door  was  a  magnificent  broad-armed  tree,  with 
benches  and  tables  beneath  its  shadow.  On 
the  front  of  the  house  was  written  in  large 
letters,  "Post-Tavern  by  Franz  Schondorfer"  ; 
and  over  this  was  a  large  sun-dial,  and  a  half- 
effaced  painting  of  a  bear-hunt,  covering  the 
whole  side  of  the  house,  and  mostly  red.  As 
they  drove  up,  a  procession  of  priests  with 
banners,  and  peasants  with  their  hats  in  their 
hands,  passed  by  towards  the  church.  They 
were  singing  a  solemn  psalm.  At  the  same 
moment,  a  smart  servant-girl,  with  a  black 
straw  hat  set  coquettishly  on  her  flaxen  hair, 
and  a  large  silver  spoon  in  her  girdle,  came 
out  of  the  inn,  and  asked  Flemming  what  he 
would  please  to  order  for  breakfast. 

Breakfast  was  soon  ready,  and  was  served  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  on  an  old-fashioned 
oaken  table  in  the  great  hall,  into  which  the 
chambers  opened  Berkley  ordered  at  the 


34O  Hyperion 

same  time  a  tub  of  cold  water,  in  which  he 
seated  himself,  with  his  coat  on,  and  a  bed- 
quilt  thrown  round  his  knees.  Thus  he  sat 
for  an  hour ;  ate  his  breakfast,  and  smoked  a 
pipe,  and  laughed  a  good  deal.  He  then  went 
to  bed  and  slept  till  dinner-time.  Meanwhile 
Flemming  sat  in  his  chamber  and  read.  It 
was  a  large  room  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
looking  upon  the  village  and  the  lake.  The 
windows  were  latticed,  with  small  panes,  and 
the  window-sills  filled  with  fragrant  flowers. 
At  length  the  heat  of  noon  was  over.  Day, 
like  a  weary  pilgrim,  had  reached  the  western 
gate  of  heaven,  and  Evening  stooped  down 
to  unloose  the  latchets  of  his  sandal-shoon. 
Flemming  and  Berkley  sallied  forth  to  ramble 
by  the  borders  of  the  lake.  Down  the  cool 
green  glades  and  alleys,  beneath  the  illumi 
nated  leaves  of  the  forest,  over  the  rising 
grounds  in  the  glimmering  fretwork  of  sun 
shine  and  leaf-shadow,  —  an  exhilarating  walk! 
The  cool  evening  air  by  the  lake  was  like  a 
bath.  They  drank  the  freshness  of  the  hour 
in  thirsty  draughts,  and  their  breasts  heaved 
rejoicing  and  revived,  after  the  feverish,  long 
confinement  of  the  sultry  summer  day.  And 
there,  too,  lay  the  lake,  so  beautiful  and 


A  Romance  341 

still !  Did  it  not  recall,  think  ye,  the  lake  of 
Thun  ? 

On  their  return  homeward,  they  passed  near 
the  village  churchyard. 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  see  how  the  dead  rest," 
said  Flemming,  as  they  passed  beneath  the 
belfry  of  the  church  ;  and  they  went  in,  and 
lingered  among  the  tombs  and  the  evening 
shadows. 

How  peaceful  is  the  dwelling-place  of  those 
who  inhabit  the  green  hamlets  and  populous 
cities  of  the  dead  !  They  need  no  antidote  for 
care,  —  no  armor  against  fate.  No  morning 
sun  shines  in  at  the  closed  windows  and 
awakens  them,  nor  shall  until  the  last  great 
day.  At  most,  a  straggling  sunbeam  creeps 
in  through  the  crumbling  wall  of  an  old, 
neglected  tomb,  —  a  strange  visitor,  that  stays 
not  long.  And  there  they  all  sleep,  the  holy 
ones,  with  their  arms  crossed  upon  their  breasts, 
or  lying  motionless  by  their  sides,  —  not 
carved  in  marble  by  the  hand  of  man,  but 
formed  in  dust  by  the  hand  of  God.  God's 
peace  be  with  them  !  No  one  comes  to  them 
now,  to  hold  them  by  the  hand,  and  with  del 
icate  fingers  to  smooth  their  hair.  They  heed 
no  more  the  blandishments  of  earthly  friend- 


34 2  Hyperion 

ship.  They  need  us  not,  however  much  we 
may  need  them.  And  yet  they  silently  await 
our  coming. 

Beautiful  is  that  season  of  life,  when  we 
can  say,  in  the  language  of  Scripture,  "  Thou 
hast  the  dew  of  thy  youth."  But  of  these 
flowers  Death  gathers  many.  He  places 
them  upon  his  bosom,  and  he  is  transformed 
into  something  less  terrific  than  before.  We 
learn  to  gaze  and  shudder  not ;  for  he  carries 
in  his  arms  the  sweet  blossoms  of  our  earthly 
hopes.  We  shall  see  them  all  again,  blooming 
in  a  happier  land. 

Yes,  Death  brings  us  again  to  our  friends. 
They  are  waiting  for  us,  and  we  shall  not  long 
delay.  They  have  gone  before  us,  and  are  like 
the  angels  in  heaven.  They  stand  upon  the 
borders  of  the  grave  to  welcome  us,  with  the 
countenance  of  affection  which  they  wore  on 
earth  ;  yet  more  lovely,  more  radiant,  more 
spiritual !  He  spake  well  who  said  that  graves 
are  the  footprints  of  angels ! 

Death  has  taken  thee,  too,  and  thou  hast  the 
dew  of  thy  youth.  He  has  placed  thee  upon 
his  bosom,  and  his  stern  countenance  wears  a 
smile.  The  far  country,  toward  which  we 
journey,  seems  nearer  to  us,  and  the  way  less 


A  Romance  343 

dark  ;  for  thou  hast  gone  before,  passing  so 
quietly  to  thy  rest,  that  clay  itself  dies  not 
more  calmly ! 

It  was  in  an  hour  ot  blessed  communion 
with  the  souls  of  the  departed,  that  the  sweet 
poet  Henry  Vaughan  wrote  those  few  lines 
Which  have  made  death  lovely. 

' '  They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 

Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

"  It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

*'  I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

"  O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

^  Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just  1 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 


344  Hyperion 

'*  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

"And  yet  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

"  If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flame  must  needs  burn  there, 
But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gave  room 
She  'd  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

"  O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee  ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

*'  Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective,  still  as  they  pass, 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass." 

Such  were  Flemming's  thoughts,  as  he  stood 
among  the  tombs  at  evening  in  the  churchyard 
of  Saint  'Gilgen.  A  holy  calm  stole  over  him. 
The  fever  of  his  heart  was  allayed.  He  had 
9.  moment's  rest  from  pain  ;  and  went  back  to 
his  chamber  in  peace.  Whence  came  this 
holy  calm,  this  long-desired  tranquillity  ?  He 


A  Romance  345 

knew  not ;  yet  the  place  seemed  consecrated. 
He  resolved  to  linger  there  beside  the  lake, 
which  was  a  Pool  of  Bethesda  for  him  ;  and 
let  Berkley  go  on  alone  to  the  baths  of  IscheL 
He  would  wait  for  him  there  in  the  solitude 
of  Saint  Gilgen.  Long  after  they  had  parted 
for  the  night,  he  sat  in  his  chamber,  and 
thought  of  what  he  had  suffered,  and  enjoyed 
the  silence  within  and  without.  Hour  after 
hour  slipped  by  unheeded,  as  he  sat  lost  in  his 
reverie.  At  length,  his  candle  sank  in  its 
socket,  gave  one  flickering  gleam,  and  expired 
with  a  sob.  This  aroused  him. 
>  He  went  to  the  window,  and  peered  out  in 
to  the  dark  night.  It  was  very  late.  Twice 
already  since  midnight  had  the  great  pulpit- 
orator  Time,  like  a  preacher  in  the  days  of  the 
Puritans,  turned  the  hour-glass  on  his  high 
pulpit,  the  church-belfry,  and  still  went  on 
with  his  sermon,  thundering  downward  to  the 
congregation  in  the  churchyard  and  in  the 
village.  But  they  heard  him  not.  They  were 
all  asleep  in  their  narrow  pews,  namely,  in 
their  beds  and  in  their  graves.  Soon  after 
ward  the  cock  crew  ;  and  the  cloudy  heaven, 
like  the  Apostle  who  denied  his  Lord,  wept 
bitterly. 

15* 


346  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    VI. 
Saint    Wolfgang 

THE  morning  is  lovely  beyond  expression. 
The  heat  of  the  sun  is  great  ;  but  a  gen 
tle  wind  cools  the  air.  Birds  never  sang  more 
loud  and  clear.  The  flowers,  too,  on  the  win 
dow-sill,  and  on  the  table,  rose,  geranium,  and 
the  delicate  crimson  cactus,  are  all  so  beauti 
ful,  that  we  think  the  German  poet  right,  when 
he  calls  the  flowers  "  stars  in  the  firmament  of 
the  earth."  Out  of  doors  all  is  quiet.  Oppo 
site  the  window  stands  the  village  school-house. 
There  are  two  parasite  trees,  with  their  out 
spread  branches  nailed  against  the  white  walls, 
like  the  wings  of  culprit  kites.  There  the 
rods  grow.  Under  them,  on  a  bench  at  the 
door,  sit  school-girls  ;  and  barefoot  urchins  in 
breeches  arc  spelling  out  their  lessons.  The 
clock  strikes  twelve,  and  one  by  one  they  dis 
appear,  and  go  into  the  hive,  like  bees  at  the 
sound  of  a  brass  pan.  At  the  door  of  the 
next  house  sits  a  poor  woman,  knitting  in  the 


A  Romance  347 

shade  ;  and  in  front  ot  her  is  an  aqueduct, 
pouring  its  cool,  clear  water  into  a  rough 
wooden  trough.  A  travelling-carriage,  with 
out  horses,  stands  at  the  inn-door,  and  a  pos 
tilion  in  red  jacket  is  talking  with  a  black 
smith,  who  wears  blue  woollen  stockings  and  a 
leather  apron.  Beyond  is  a  stable,  and  still 
farther  a  cluster  of  houses  and  the  village 
church.  They  are  repairing  the  belfry  and 
the  bulbous  steeple.  A  little  farther,  over  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  you  can  see  Saint  Wolf 
gang's  lake.  Water  so  bright  and  beautiful 
hardly  flows  elsewhere.  Green  and  blue  and 
silver-white  run  into  each  other,  with  almost 
imperceptible  change.  And  above  are  the 
pinnacles  of  the  mountains  ;  some  bald,  and 
rocky,  and  cone-shaped,  and  others  bold,  and 
broad,  and  dark  with  pines. 

Such  was  the  scene  which  Paul  Flemming 
beheld  from  his  window  a  few  mornings  after 
Berkley's  departure.  The  quiet  of  the  place 
had  soothed  him.  He  had  become  more  calm. 
His  heart  complained  less  loudly  in  the  holy 
village  silence,  as  we  are  wont  to  lower  our 
voices  when  those  around  us  speak  in  whis 
pers.  He  began  to  feei  at  times  an  interest 
in  the  lowly  things  about  him.  The  face  of 


348  Hyperion 

the  landscape  pleased  him,  but  more  than  this 
the  face  of  the  poor  woman  who  sat  knitting 
in  the  shade.  It  was  a  pale,  meek  counte 
nance,  with  more  delicacy  in  its  features  than 
is  usual  among  peasantry.  It  wore  also  an 
expression  of  patient  suffering.  As  he  was 
looking  at  her,  a  deformed  child  came  out  of 
the  door  and  hung  upon  her  knees.  She 
caressed  him  affectionately.  It  was  her  child, 
in  whom  she  beheld  her  own  fair  features  dis 
torted  and  hardly  to  be  recognized,  as  one 
sometimes  sees  one's  face  reflected  from  the 
bowl  of  a  spoon. 

The  child's  deformity  and  the  mother's  ten- 
derness  interested  the  feelings  of  Flemming. 
The  landlady  told  him  something  of  the  poor 
woman's  history.  She  was  the  widow  of  a 
blacksmith,  who  had  died  soon  after  their  mar 
riage.  But  she  survived  to  become  a  mother, 
as,  in  oaks,  immediately  after  fecundation,  the 
male  flower  fades  and  falls,  while  the  female 
continues  and  ripens  into  perfect  fruit.  Alas ! 
her  child  was  deformed.  Yet  she  looked  upon 
him  with  eyes  of  maternal  fondness  and  pity, 
loving  him  still  more  for  his  deformity.  And 
in  her  heart  she  said,  as  the  Mexicans  say  to 
their  new-born  offspring, —  "Child,  thou  art 


A.  Romance  349 

come  into  the  world  to  suffer.  Endure,  and 
hold  thy  peace."  Though  poor,  she  was  not 
entirely  destitute  ;  for  her  husband  had  left 
her,  besides  the  deformed  child,  a  life  estate 
in  a  tomb  in  the  churchyard  of  Saint  Gilgen. 
During  the  week  she  labored  for  other  people, 
and  on  Sundays  for  herself,  by  going  to  church 
and  reading  the  Bible.  On  one  of  the  blank 
leaves  she  had  recorded  the  day  of  her  birth, 
and  that  of  her  child's,  likewise  her  marriage 
and  her  husband's  death.  Thus  she  lived, 
poor,  patient,  and  resigned.  Her  heart  was  a 
passion-flower,  bearing  within  it  the  crown  of 
thorns  and  the  cross  of  Christ.  Her  ideas  of 
heaven  were  few  and  simple.  She  rejected 
the  doctrine  that  it  was  a  place  of  constant 
activity,  and  not  of  repose,  and  believed  that, 
when  she  at  length  reached  it,  she  should 
work  no  more,  but  sit  always  in  a  clean  white 
apron,  and  sing  psalms. 

As  Flemming  sat  meditating  on  these 
things,  he  paid  new  homage  in  his  heart  to 
the  beauty  and  excellence  of  the  female  char 
acter.  He  thought  of  the  absent  and  the 
dead  ;  and  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  :  — 

"  Shall  I  thank  God  for  the  green  summer, 
and  the  mild  air,  and  the  flowers,  and  the 


35°  Hyperion 

stars,  and  all  that  makes  this  world  so  beau 
tiful,  and  not  for  the  good  and  beautiful  beings 
I  have  known  in  it  ?  Has  not  their  presence 
been  sweeter  to  me  than  flowers  ?  Arc  they 
not  higher  and  holier  than  the  stars?  Are 
they  not  more  to  me  than  all  things  else  ? " 

Thus  the  morning  passed  away  in  musings  ; 
and  in  the  afternoon,  when  Flemming  was 
preparing  to  go  down  to  the  lake,  as  his  cus 
tom  was,  a  carriage  drew  up  before  the  door, 
and,  to  his  great  astonishment,  out  jumped 
Berkley.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  give 
the  postmaster,  who  stood  near  the  door,  a 
smart  cut  with  his  whip.  The  sufferer  gently 
expostulated,  saying,  — 

"  Pray,  Sir,  don't ;  I  am  lame." 

Whereupon  Berkley  desisted,  and  began  in 
stead  to  shake  the  postmaster's  wife  by  the 
shoulders,  and  order  his  dinner  in  English. 
But  all  this  was  done  so  good-naturedly,  and 
with  such  a  rosy,  laughing  face,  that  no  offence 
was  taken. 

"  So  you  have  returned  much  sooner  than 
you  intended,"  said  Flemming,  after  the  first 
friendly  salutations. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Berkley  ;  "  I  became  tired  of 
Ischel,  —  very  tired.  I  did  not  find  there  the 


A    Romance.  351 

friends  I  expected.  Now  I  am  going  back 
to  Salzburg,  and  then  to  Gastein.  There  I 
shall  certainly  find  them.  You  must  go  with 
me." 

Flemming  declined  the  invitation  ;  and  pro 
posed  to  Berkley  that  he  should  join  him  in 
his  excursion  on  the  lake. 

"You  shall  hear  the  grand  echo  of  the 
Falkenstein,"  said  he,  "  and  behold  the  scene 
of  the  Bridal  Tragedy  ;  and  then  we  will  go 
on  as  far  as  the  village  of  Saint  Wolfgang, 
which  you  have  not  yet  seen,  except  across 
the  lake." 

"  Well,  this  afternoon  I  devote  to  you  ;  for 
to-morrow  we  part  once  more,  and  who  knows 
when  we  shall  meet  again  ? " 

They  went  down  to  the  water's  side  with 
out  further  delay ;  and,  taking  a  boat  with 
two  oars,  struck  across  an  elbow  of  the  lake 
towards  a  barren  rock  by  the  eastern  shore, 
from  which  a  small  white  monument  shone  in 
the  sun. 

"  That  monument,"  said  one  of  the  boat 
men,  a  stout  young  lad  in  leather  breeches, 
"was  built  by  a  butcher,  to  the  glory  of  Saint 
Wolfgang,  who  saved  him  from  drowning.  He 
was  one  day  riding  an  ox  to  market  along  the 


35 2  Hyperion 

opposite  bank ;  when  the  animal,  taking  fright, 
sprang  into  the  water,  and  swam  over  to  this 
place,  with  the  butcher  on  his  back." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  could  have  done 
this,"  asked  Berkley,  "  if  Saint  Wolfgang  had 
not  helped  him  ? " 

"Of  course  not!"  answered  leather-breeches; 
and  the  Englishman  laughed. 

From  this  point  they  rowed  along  under 
the  shore  to  a  low  promontory,  upon  which 
stood  another  monument,  commemorating  a 
more  tragical  event. 

"  This  is  the  place  I  was  speaking  of,"  said 
Flemming,  as  the  boatmen  rested  on  their  oars. 
"  The  melancholy  and  singular  event  it  com 
memorates  happened  more  than  two  centuries 
ago.  There  was  a  bridal  party  here  upon  the 
ice,  one  winter  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dance 
the  ice  broke,  and  the  whole  merry  company 
were  drowned  together,  except  the  fiddlers, 
who  were  sitting  on  the  shore." 

They  looked  in  silence  at  the  monument, 
and  at  the  blue  quiet  water,  under  which  the 
bones  of  the  dancers  lay  buried,  hand  in  hand. 
The  monument  is  of  stone,  painted  white,  with 
an  overhanging  roof  to  shelter  it  from  storms. 
In  a  niche  in  front  is  a  small  image  of  the 


A  Romance  353 

Saviour,  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  an  inscrip 
tion  upon  a  marble  tablet  below  says  that  it 
was  placed  there  by  Longinus  Walther,  and 
his  wife,  Barbara  Juliana  von  Hainberg ;  them 
selves  long  since  peacefully  crumbled  to  dust, 
side  by  side,  in  some  churchyard. 

"That  was  breaking  the  ice  with  a  ven 
geance  ! "  said  Berkley,  as  they  pushed  out 
into  the  lake  again  ;  and  erelong  they  were 
floating  beneath  the  mighty  precipice  of  Falk- 
enstein  ;  a  steep  wall  of  rock,  crowned  with  a 
chapel  and  a  hermitage,  where  in  days  of  old 
lived  the  holy  Saint  Wolfgang.  It  is  now 
haunted  only  by  an  echo,  so  distinct  and  loud, 
that  one  might  imagine  the  ghost  of  the  de 
parted  saint  to  be  sitting  there,  and  repeating 
the  voices  from  below,  —  not  word  by  word, 
but  sentence  by  sentence,  as  if  he  were  pass 
ing  them  up  to  the  recording  angel. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  shouted  Berkley  ;  and  the 
sound  seemed  to  strike  the  wall  of  stone,  like 
the  flapping  of  steel  plates  ;  —  "  Ho !  ho  !  ho  1 
How  are  you  to-day,  Saint  Wolfgang  ?  You 
infernal  old  rascal !  How  is  the  Frau  von 
Wolfgang  ?  —  God  save  great  George,  our  king ! 
Damn  your  eyes  !  Hold  your  tongue  !  Ho ! 
ho!  ha!  ha!  hi!" 

w 


354  Hyperion 

And  the  words  were  recorded  above  ;  and 
a  voice  repeated  them  with  awful  distinctness 
in  the  blue  depths  overhead  ;  and  Flemming 
felt  in  his  inmost  soul  the  contrast  between 
the  holy  heavens,  and  the  mockery  of  laughter, 
and  the  idle  words,  which  fall  back  from  the 
sky  above  us  and  soil  not  its  purity. 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  at  the  village  of 
Saint  Wolfgang,  threading  a  narrow  street, 
above  which  the  roofs  of  quaint,  picturesque 
old  houses  almost  met.  It  led  them  to  a 
Gothic  church  ;  a  magnificent  one  for  a  vil 
lage  ; —  in  front  of  which  was  a  small  court, 
shut  in  by  Italian-looking  houses,  with  bal 
conies,  and  flowers  at  the  windows.  Here  a 
bronze  fountain  of  elaborate  workmanship 
was  playing  in  the  shade.  On  its  summit 
stood  an  image  of  the  patron  saint  of  the 
village ;  and,  running  round  the  under  lip  of 
the  water-basin  below,  they  read  this  inscrip 
tion  in  old  German  rhymes  :  — 

"  I  am  in  the  honor  of  Saint  Wolfgang 
raised.  Abbot  Wolfgang  Habel  of  Emensee, 
he  hath  made  me  for  the  use  and  delight  of 
poor  pilgrim  wight.  Neither  gold  nor  wine 
hath  he  ;  at  this  water  shall  he  merry  be.  In 
the  year  of  the  Lord  fifteen  hundred  and  fif- 


A  Romance  355 

teen  h^th  the  work  completed  been.  God  be 
praised ! " 

As  they  were  deciphering  the  rude  characters 
of  this  pious  inscription,  a  village  priest  came 
down  a  high  flight  of  steps  from  the  parsonage 
near  the  church,  and  courteously  saluted  the 
strangers.  After  returning  the  salutation,  the 
mad  Englishman,  without  preface,  asked  him 
how  many  natural  children  were  annually  born 
in  the  parish.  The  question  seemed  to  aston 
ish  the  good  father  ;  but  he  answered  it  civilly, 
as  he  did  several  other  questions,  which  Flem- 
ming  thought  rather  indiscreet,  to  say  the 
least. 

"  You  will  excuse  our  curiosity,"  said  he  to 
the  priest,  by  way  of  apology.  "  We  are  stran 
gers  from  distant  countries.  My  friend  is  an 
Englishman,  and  I  an  American." 

Berkley,  however,  was  not  so  easily  silenced. 
After  a  few  moments'  conversation,  he  broke 
out  into  most  audacious  Latin,  in  which  the 
only  words  clearly  intelligible  were  :  — 

"Plurimum  reverende,  in  Christo  religiosis- 

sime  ac  clarissime  Domine,  necnon  et  amice 

observandissime  !    Petrus  sic  est  iocutus :  '  Nee 

fcrgentum  mihi,  nee  aurum  est ;  sed  quod  ha- 

£0,  hoc  tibi  do ;  surge  et  ambula 


356  Hyperion 

He  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  the  fountaia 
The  priest  answered  meekly,  - 

"  Non  intellexi,  Domine  !  " 

But  Berkley  continued  with  great  volubility 
to  speak  of  his  being  a  stranger  in  the  land, 
and  all  men  being  strangers  upon  earth,  and 
hoping  to  meet  the  good  priest  hereafter  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  priest  seemed 
confounded  and  abashed.  Through  the  mist 
of  a  strange  pronunciation,  he  could  recognize 
only  here  and  there  a  familiar  word.  He  took 
out  his  snuff-box  ;  and  tried  to  quote  a  pas 
sage  from  Saint  Paul :  — 

"  Ut  dixit  Sanctus  Paulus :  Qui  bene  fa- 
cit " 

Here  his  memory  failed  him,  or,  as  the 
French  say,  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  Latin, 
and,  stretching  forth  his  long  forefinger,  he 
concluded  in  German  :  — • 

«  Yes  ;  —  I  don't  —  so  clearly  remember  — 
what  he  did  say." 

The  Englishman  helped  him  through  with  a 
.noral  phrase  ;  and  then,  pulling  off  his  hat, 
exclaimed  very  solemnly  :  — 

"Vale,  Domine  doctissime  et  reverendis- 
Bime!" 

And  the  Dominie,  as  if  pursued  by  a  demon, 


A   Romance  357 

made  a  sudden  and  precipitate  retreat  down  a 
flight  of  steps  into  the  street. 

"There!"  said  Berkley,  laughing,  "I  beat 
him  at  his  own  weapons.  What  do  you  say 
of  my  Latin  ? " 

"  I  say  of  it,"  replied  Flemming,  "  what  Ho- 
lofernes  said  of  Sir  Nathaniel's  :  — '  Priscian  a 
little  scratched  ;  't  will  serve.'  I  think  I  have 
heard  better.  But  what  a  whim  !  I  thought  I 
should  have  laughed  aloud." 

They  were  still  sitting  by  the  bronze  foun 
tain,  when  the  priest  returned,  accompanied 
by  a  short  man,  with  large  feet,  and  a  long 
blue  surtout,  so  greasy,  that  it  reminded  one 
of  Polilla's  in  the  Spanish  play,  which  was 
lined  with  slices  of  pork.  His  countenance 
was  broad  and  placid,  but  his  blue  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  wild,  mysterious,  sorrowful 
expression.  Flemming  thought  the  Latin 
contest  was  to  be  renewed,  with  more  pow 
der  and  heavier  guns.  He  was  mistaken. 
The  stranger  saluted  him  in  German,  and 
said,  that,  having  heard  he  was  from  America, 
he  had  come  to  question  him  about  that  dis 
tant  country,  for  which  he  was  on  the  point 
of  embarking.  There  was  nothing  peculiar  in 
his  manner,  nor  in  the  questions  he  asked,  nor 


35  8  Hyperion 

the  remarks  he  made.  They  were  the  usual 
questions  and  remarks  about  cities  and  cli 
mate  and  sailing  the  sea.  At  length  Flem- 
ming  asked  him  the  object  of  his  journey  to 
America.  The  stranger  came  close  to  him, 
and,  lowering  his  voice,  said  very  solemnly  :  — 

"  That  holy  man,  Frederick  Baraga,  mis 
sionary  among  the  Indians  at  Lacroix,  on 
Lake  Superior,  has  returned  to  his  fatherland, 
Krain  ;  and  I  am  chosen  by  Heaven  to  go 
forth  as  Minister  Extraordinary  of  Christ,  to 
unite  all  nations  and  people  in  one  church  ! " 

Flemming  almost  started  at  the  singular 
earnestness  with  which  he  uttered  these  words  ; 
and  looked  at  him  attentively,  thinking  to  see 
the  face  of  a  madman.  But  the  modest, 
unassuming  look  of  that  placid  countenance 
was  unchanged  ;  only  in  the  eyes  burned  a 
mysterious  light,  as  if  candles  had  been  lighted 
in  the  brain,  to  magnify  the  daylight  there. 

"  It  is  truly  a  high  vocation,"  said  he,  in 
reply.  "  But  are  you  sure  that  this  is  no  hal 
lucination  ?  Are  you  certain  that  you  have 
been  chosen  by  Heaven  for  this  great  work  ? " 

"  I  am  certain,"  replied  the  German,  in  a 
tone  of  great  calmness  and  sincerity  ;  "  and 
if  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Paul  should  come 


A  Romance  359 

down  from  heaven  to  assure  me  of  it,  my  faith 
would  be  no  stronger  than  it  now  is.  It  has 
been  declared  to  me  by  many  signs  and  won 
ders.  I  can  no  longer  doubt  nor  hesitate.  I 
have  already  heard  the  voice  of  the  Spirit, 
speaking  to  me  at  night ;  and  I  know  that  I 
am  an  Apostle,  and  chosen  for  this  work." 

Such  was  the  calm  enthusiasm  with  which 
he  spoke,  that  Flemming  could  not  choose  but 
listen.  He  felt  interested  in  this  strange  be 
ing.  There  was  something  awe-inspiring  in 
the  spirit  that  possessed  him.  After  a  short 
pause,  he  continued  :  — 

"  If  you  wish  to  know  who  I  am,  I  can  tell 
you  in  few  words.  I  think  you  will  not  find 
the  story  without  interest." 

He  then  went  on  to  relate  the  circumstances 
recorded  in  the  following  chapter. 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER     VII. 
The  Story  of  Brother  Bernardus 

'  T    was  born  in  the  city  of  Stein,  in  the  land 
•*•    of  Krain.     My  pious  mother,  Gertrude, 

sang  me  psalms  and  spiritual  songs  in  child 
hood  ;  and  often,  when  I  av/oke  in  the  night,  I 
saw  her  still  sitting  patiently  at  her  work,  by 
the  stove,  and  heard  her  singing  those  hymns 
of  heaven,  or  praying  in  the  midnight  darkness 
when  her  work  was  done.  It  was  for  me  she 
prayed.  Thus,  from  my  earliest  childhood,  I 
breathed  the  breath  of  pious  aspiravions.  Af 
terwards  I  went  to  Laybach,  as  a  sludent  of 
theology  ;  and,  after  the  usual  course  of  study, 
was  ordained  a  priest.  I  went  forth  to  the 
care  of  souls;  my  own  soul  filled  with  the 
faith  that  erelong  all  people  would  be  united 
in  one  church.  Yet  at  times  my  hearl  was 
heavy,  to  behold  how  many  nations  there  n.re 
who  have  not  heard  of  Christ ;  and  how  those 
who  are  called  Christians  are  divided  info 
numberless  sects,  and  how  among  these  ar<> 


A  Romance  361 

many  who  are  Christians  in  name  only.  I 
determined  to  devote  myself  to  the  great  work 
of  the  one  Church  Universal,  and,  for  this  pur 
pose,  to  give  myself  wholly  up  to  the  study  of 
the  Evangelists  and  the  Fathers.  I  retired  to 
the  Benedictine  cloister  of  Saint  Paul  in  the 
valley  of  Lavant.  The  father-confessor  in  the 
nunnery  of  Laak,  where  I  then  lived,  strength 
ened  me  in  this  resolve.  I  had  long  walked 
with  this  angel  of  God  in  a  human  form,  and 
his  parting  benediction  sank  deep  into  my  soul. 
The  Prince-Abbot  Berthold,  of  blessed  mem 
ory,  was  then  head  of  the  Benedictine  convent. 
He  received  me  kindly,  and  led  me  to  the 
library  ;  where  I  gazed  with  secret  rapture  on 
the  vast  folios  of  the  Christian  Fathers,  from 
which,  as  from  an  arsenal,  I  was  to  draw  the 
weapons  of  holy  warfare.  In  the  study  of 
these  the  year  of  my  novitiate  passed.  I  be 
came  a  Franciscan  friar,  and  took  the  name  of 
Brother  Bernardus.  Yet  my  course  of  life  re 
mained  unchanged.  I  seldom  left  the  cloister  ; 
but  sat  in  my  cell,  and  pored  over  those  tomes 
of  holy  wisdom.  About  this  time  the  aged  con 
fessor  in  Laak  departed  this  life.  His  death 
was  made  known  to  me  in  a  dream.  It  must 
have  been  after  midnight,  when  I  thought  that 
16 


3^2  Hyperion 

I  came  into  the  church,  which  was  brilliantly 
lighted  up.  The  dead  body  of  the  venerable 
saint  was  brought  in,  attended  by  a  great  crowd. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  go  up  into  the 
pulpit  and  pronounce  his  funeral  oration  ;  and 
as  I  ascended  the  stairs  the  words  of  my  text 
came  into  my  mind,  — '  Blessed  in  the  sight 
of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints/  My 
funeral  sermon  ended  in  a  strain  of  exultation ; 
and  I  awoke  with  '  Amen  ! '  upon  my  lips.  A 
few  days  afterwards,  I  heard  that  on  that 
night  the  old  man  died.  After  this  event,  I 
became  restless  and  melancholy.  I  strove  in 
vain  to  drive  away  my  gloomy  thoughts.  I 
could  no  longer  study.  I  was  no  longer  con 
tented  in  the  cloister.  I  even  thought  of 
leaving  it. 

"  One  night,  I  had  gone  to  bed  early,  accord 
ing  to  my  custom,  and  had  fallen  asleep.  Sud 
denly  I  was  awakened  by  a  bright  and  won 
derful  light,  which  shone  all  about  me,  and 
filled  me  with  heavenly  rapture.  Shortly  after, 
I  heard  a  voice,  which  pronounced  distinctly 
these  words,  in  the  Sclavonian  tongue:  — 
Remain  in  the  cloister ! '  It  was  the  voice  of 
my  departed  mother.  I  was  fully  awake  ;  yet 
saw  nothing  but  the  bright  jight,  which  dis, 


A   Romance  363 

appeared  when  the  words  had  been  spoken. 
Still  it  was  broad  daylight  in  my  chamber. 
I  thought  I  had  slept  beyond  my  usual  hour. 
I  locked  at  my  watch.  It  was  just  one  o'clock 
after  midnight.  Suddenly  the  daylight  van 
ished,  and  it  was  dark.  In  the  morning  I 
arose,  as  if  new-born,  through  the  wonderful 
light  and  the  words  of  my  mother's  voice.  It 
was  no  dream.  I  knew  it  was  the  will  of  God 
that  I  should  stay ;  and  I  could  again  give 
myself  up  to  quiet  study.  I  read  the  whole 
Bible  through  once  more  in  the  original  text ; 
and  went  on  with  the  Fathers  in  chronological 
order.  Often,  after  the  apparition  of  the  light, 
I  awoke  at  the  same  hour ;  and  though  I  heard 
no  voice  and  saw  no  light,  yet  was  refreshed 
with  heavenly  consolation. 

"  Not  long  after  this,  an  important  event 
happened  in  the  cloister.  In  the  absence  of 
the  deacon  of  the  abbey,  I  was  to  preach  the 
Thanksgiving  sermon  of  Harvest-home.  Dur 
ing  the  week,  the  Prince-Abbot  Berthold  gave 
up  the  ghost ;  and  my  sermon  became  at  once 
a  thanksgiving  and  funeral  sermon.  Perhaps 
it  may  not  be  unworthy  of  notice,  that  I  was 
thus  called  to  pronounce  the  burial  discourse 
over  the  body  of  the  last  reigning  spiritual 


364  Hyperion 

Prince- Abbot  in  Germany.     He  was  a  man  ol 
God,  and  worthy  of  this  honor. 

"  One  year  after  this  event,  I  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Biblical  Hermeneutics  in  Klagen- 
furt,  and  left  the  abbey  for  ever.  In  Klagenfurt 
I  remained  ten  years,  dwelling  in  the  same 
house,  and  eating  at  the  same  table,  with 
seventeen  other  Professors.  Their  conversa 
tion  naturally  suggested  new  topics  of  study, 
and  brought  to  my  notice  books  which  I  had 
never  before  seen.  One  day  I  heard  at  table, 
that  Maurus  Cappellari,  a  monk  of  Camaldoli, 
had  been  elected  Pope,  under  the  name  of 
Gregory  Sixteenth.  He  was  spoken  of  as  a 
very  learned  man,  who  had  written  many 
books.  At  this  time  I  was  a  firm  believer  in 
the  Pope's  infallibility ;  and  when  I  heard  these 
books  mentioned,  there  arose  in  me  an  irre 
sistible  longing  to  read  them.  I  inquired  for 
them  ;  but  they  were  nowhere  to  be  had.  At 
length  I  heard  that  his  most  important  work, 
'The  Triumph  of  the  Holy  See  and  of  the 
Church/  had  been  translated  into  German  and 
published  in  Augsburg.  Erelong  the  precious 
volume  was  in  my  hands.  I  began  to  read 
it  with  the  profoundest  awe.  The  farther  I 
read,  the  more  my  wonder  grsw.  The  subject 


A  Romance  365 

tvas  of  the  deepest  interest  to  me.  I  could 
not  lay  the  book  out  of  my  hand,  till  I  had 
read  it.  through  with  the  closest  attention. 
Now  at  length  my  eyes  were  opened.  I  saw 
before  me  a  monk  who  had  been  educated 
in  an  Italian  cloister  ;  who  indeed  had  read 
much,  and  yet  only  what  was  calculated  to 
strengthen  him  in  the  prejudices  of  his  child 
hood,  and  who  had  entirely  neglected  those 
studies  upon  which  a  bishop  should  most  rely, 
in  order  to  work  out  the  salvation  of  man.  I 
perceived,  at  the  same  time,  that  this  was  the 
strongest  instrument  for  battering  down  the 
walls  which  separate  Christian  from  Christian. 
I  saw,  though  as  yet  dimly,  the  way  in  which 
the  union  of  Christians  in  the  one  true  Church 
was  to  be  accomplished.  I  knew  not  whether 
to  be  most  astonished  at  my  own  blindness, 
that,  in  all  my  previous  studies,  I  had  not 
perceived  what  the  reading  of  this  single  book 
made  manifest  to  me  ;  or  at  the  blindness  of 
the  Pope,  who  had  undertaken  to  justify  such 
follies,  without  perceiving  that  at  the  same 
moment  he  was  himself  lying  in  fatal  error. 
But  since  I  have  learned  more  thoroughly  the 
tvays  of  the  Lord,  I  am  now  no  more  aston 
ished  at  this,  but  pray  only  to  Divine  Provi- 


366  Hyperion 

dence,  who  so  mysteriously  prepares  all  people 
to  be  united  in  one  true  Church.  I  no  longei 
believed  in  the  Pope's  infallibility  ;  nay,  I 
believed  even,  that,  to  the  great  injury  of 
humanity,  he  lay  in  fatal  error.  I  felt,  more 
over,  that  now  the  time  had  fully  come  when 
I  should  publicly  show  myself,  and  found  in 
America  a  parish  and  a  school,  and  become 
the  spiritual  guide  of  men  and  the  school 
master  of  children. 

"It  was  then,  and  on  that  account,  that  I 
wrote  in  the  Latin  tongue  my  great  work  on 
Biblical  Hermeneutics.  But  in  Germany  it 
cannot  be  published.  The  Austrian  censor 
of  the  press  cannot  find  time  to  read  it ; 
though  I  think,  that,  if  I  have  spent  so  many 
laborious  days  and  sleepless  nights  in  writing 
it,  this  man  ought  likewise  to  find  time  enough 
not  only  to  read  it,  but  to  examine  all  the 
grounds  of  my  reasoning,  and  point  out  to  me 
my  errors,  if  he  can  find  any.  Notwithstand 
ing,  the  Spirit  gave  me  no  repose,  but  urged 
me  ever  mightily  on  to  the  perfection  of  my 
great  work. 

"  One  morning  I  sat  writing,  under  peculiar 
influences  of  the  Spirit,  upon  the  Confusion 
of  Tongues,  the  Division  of  the  People,  and 


A  Romance  367 

the  importance  of  the  study  of  Comparative 
Philology,  in  reference  to  their  union  in  one 
Church.  So  wrapped  was  I  in  the  thought 
that  I  came  late  into  my  lecture-room  ;  and 
after  lecture  returned  to  my  chamber,  where  I 
wrote  till  the  clock  struck  twelve.  At  dinner, 
one  of  the  Professors  asked  if  any  one  had 
seen  the  star  about  which  so  much  was  said. 
The  Professor  of  Physics  said  that  the  stu 
dent  Johannes  Schminke  had  come  to  him  in 
the  greatest  haste,  and  besought  him  to  go 
out  and  see  the  wonderful  star  ;  but,  being 
incredulous  about  it,  he  made  no  haste,  and 
when  they  came  into  the  street,  the  star  had 
disappeared.  When  I  heard  the  star  spoken 
of,  my  soul  was  filled  with  rapture  ;  and  a 
voice  within  me  seemed  to  say,  'The  great 
time  is  approaching  ;  labor  unweariedly  in  thy 
work/  I  sought  out  the  student,  and,  like 
Herod,  inquired  diligently  at  what  time  the 
star  appeared.  He  informed  me,  that,  just 
as  the  clock  was  striking  eight  in  the  morn 
ing,  he  went  out  of  his  house  to  go  to  the 
college,  and  saw  on  the  square  a  crowd  look 
ing  at  a  bright  star.  It  was  the  very  hour 
when  I  was  writing  alone  in  my  chamber 
sm  the  importance  of  Comparative  Philology 


3^8  Hyperion 

in  bringing  about  the  union  of  all  nations. 
I  felt  that  my  hour  had  come.  Strangely 
moved,  I  walked  up  and  down  my  chamber. 
The  evening  twilight  came  on.  I  lighted  my 
lamp,  and  drew  the  green  curtains  before  the 
windows,  and  sat  down  to  read.  But  hardly 
had  I  taken  the  book  into  my  hand,  when  the 
Spirit  began  to  move  me,  and  urge  me  then  to 
make  my  last  decision  and  resolve.  I  made 
a  secret  vow  that  I  would  undertake  the 
voyage  to  America.  Suddenly  my  troubled 
thoughts  were  still.  An  unwonted  rapture 
filled  my  heart.  I  sat  and  read  till  the  sup, 
per-bell  rang.  They  were  speaking  at  table 
of  a  red,  glaring  meteor,  which  had  just  been 
seen  in  the  air,  southeast  from  Klagenfurt,  and 
had  suddenly  disappeared  with  a  dull,  hollow 
sound.  It  was  the  very  moment  at  which  I 
had  taken  my  final  resolution  to  leave  my 
native  land.  Every  great  purpose  and  event 
of  my  life  seemed  heralded  and  attended  by 
divine  messengers,  —  the  voices  of  the  dead, 
the  bright  morning  star  shining  in  the  clear 
sunshine,  and  the  red  meteor  in  the  evening 
twilight. 

"I  now  began  seriously  to  prepare  for  my 
departure.     The  chamber  I  occupied  had  once 


A  Romance  369 

been  the  library  of  a  Franciscan  convent. 
Only  a  thick  wall  separated  it  from  the  church. 
In  this  wall  was  a  niche,  with  heavy  folding- 
doors,  which  had  served  the  Franciscans  as  a 
repository  for  prohibited  books.  Here  also  I 
kept  my  papers,  and  my  great  work  on  Biblical 
Hermeneutics.  The  inside  of  the  doors  was 
covered  with  horrible  caricatures  of  Luther, 
Melancthon,  Calvin,  and  other  great  men.  I 
used  often  to  look  at  them  with  the  deepest 
melancholy,  when  I  thought  that  these  great 
men  likewise  had  labored  upon  earth,  and  fought 
with  Satan  in  the  Church.  But  they  were  per 
secuted,  denounced,  condemned  to  die.  So 
perhaps  will  it  be  with  me.  I  thought  of  this 
often,  and  armed  myself  against  the  fear  of 
death.  I  was  in  constaTTt  apprehension,  lest 
the  police  should  search  my  chamber  during 
my  absence,  and,  by  examining  my  papers, 
discover  my  doctrine  and  designs.  But  the 
Spirit  said  to  me :  '  Be  of  good  cheer  ;  I  will 
so  blind  the  eyes  of  thy  enemies,  that  it  shall 
not  once  occur  to  them  to  think  of  thy  writ 
ings/ 

"  At  length,  after  many  difficulties  and  temp 
tations  of  the  Devil,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Amer 
ica.     Yesterday   I  took  leave  of  my  dearest 
16*  x 


370  Hyperion 

friend,  Gregory  Kuscher,  in  Hallstadt.  He 
seemed  rilled  with  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  has 
wonderfully  strengthened  me  in  my  purpose. 
All  the  hosts  of  heaven  looked  on,  and  were 
glad.  The  old  man  kissed  me,  at  parting ; 
and  I  ascended  the  mountain  as  if  angels  bore 
me  up  in  their  arms.  Near  the  summit  lay  a 
newly  fallen  avalanche,  over  which,  as  yet,  no 
footsteps  had  passed.  This  was  my  last  temp 
tation.  'Ha!'  cried  I  aloud,  'Satan  has  pre 
pared  a  snare  for  me  ;  but  I  will  conquer  him 
with  godly  weapons.'  I  sprang  over  the 
treacherous  snow,  with  greater  faith  than  St. 
Peter  walked  the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Gali 
lee  ;  and  came  down  the  valley,  while  the 
mountain  peaks  yet  shone  in  the  setting  sun. 
God  smiles  upon  me.  I  go  forth  full  of  hope 
ful  courage.  On  Christmas  next,  I  shall  ex 
communicate  the  Pope." 

Saying  these  words,  he  slowly  and  sol 
emnly  took  his  leave,  like  one  conscious  of  the 
great  events  which  awaited  him,  and  withdrew 
with  the  other  priest  into  the  church.  Flem- 
ming  could  not  smile  as  Berkley  did  ;  for  in 
the  solitary,  singular  enthusiast,  who  had  just 
left  them,  he  saw  only  another  melancholy 
victim  to  solitude  and  over-labor  of  the  brain ; 


A  Romance  371 

and  felt  how  painful  a  thing  it  is  thus  to  be 
come  unconsciously  the  almsman  of  other 
men's  sympathies,  a  kind  of  blind  beggar  for 
the  charity  of  a  good  wish  or  a  prayer. 

The  sun  was  now  setting.  Silently  they 
floated  back  to  Saint  Gilgen,  amid  the  cool 
evening  shadows.  The  village  clock  struck 
n/ne,  as  they  landed  ;  and  as  Berkley  was  to 
depart  early  in  the  morning,  he  went  to  bed 
betimes.  On  bidding  Flemming  good  night, 
he  said  :  — 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  in  the  morning ;  so 
good  by,  and  God  bless  you.  Remember  my 
parting  words.  Never  mind  trifles.  In  this 
world  a  man  must  either  be  anvil  or  hammer. 
Care  killed  a  cat !  " 

"  I  have  heard  you  say  that  so  often,"  replied 
Flemming,  laughing,  "that  I  begin  to  believe 
it.  But  I  wonder  if  Care  shaved  his  left  eye 
brow  after  doing  the  deed,  as  the  ancient 
Egyptians  used  to  do  !  " 

"  Aha !  now  you  are  sweeping  cobwebs 
from  the  sky  !  Good  night !  Good  night !  " 

A  sorrowful  event  happened  in  the  neigh 
borhood  that  night.  The  widow's  child  died 
suddenly.  "  Woe  is  me  !  "  —  thus  mourns  the 
childless  mother  in  one  of  the  funeral  sones 


57  2  Hyperion 

of  Greenland  ;  —  "  Woe  is  me,  that  I  shoul  1 
gaze  upon  thy  place  and  find  it  vacant !  In 
vain  for  thee  thy  mother  dries  the  sea-drenched 
garments ! "  Not  in  these  words,  but  in 
thoughts  like  these,  did  the  poor  mother  bewail 
the  death  of  her  child,  thinking  mostly  of  the 
vacant  place,  and  the  daily  cares  and  solici 
tudes  of  maternal  love.  Flemming  saw  a  light 
in  her  chamber,  and  shadows  moving  to  and 
fro,  as  he  stood  by  the  window,  gazing  into  the 
starry,  silent  sky.  But  he  little  thought  of  the 
awful  domestic  tragedy  which  was  even  then 
enacted  behind  those  thin  curtains  ! 


A   Romance  373 


CHAPTER    VIII. 
Footprints  of  Angels 

f  T  was  Sunday  morning ;  and  the  church 
J-  bells  were  all  ringing  together.  From  the 
neighboring  villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful 
sounds,  floating  through  the  sunny  air,  mellow 
and  faint  and  low, — all  mingling  into  one 
harmonious  chime,  like  the  sound  of  some  dis 
tant  organ  in  heaven.  Anon  they  ceased  ;  and 
the  woods,  and  the  clouds,  and  the  whole  vil 
lage,  and  the  very  air  itself,  seemed  to  pray, 
—  so  silent  was  it  everywhere. 

Two  venerable  old  men  —  high-priests  and 
patriarchs  were  they  in  the  land  —  went  up 
the  pulpit  stairs,  as  Moses  and  Aaron  went  up 
Mount  Her,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  congrega 
tion,  —  for  the  pulpit  stairs  were  in  front,  and 
very  high. 

Paul  Flemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon 
he  heard  that  day,  —  no,  not  even  if  he  should 
live  to  be  as  old  as  he  who  preached  it.  The 
text  was,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  livetlv' 


374  Hyperion 

It  was  meant  to  console  the  pious,  poor  widow, 
who  sat  right  below  him  at  the  foot  of  the  pul 
pit  stairs,  all  in  black,  and  her  heart  breaking. 
He  said  nothing  of  the  terrors  of  death,  nor 
of  the  gloom  of  the  narrow  house  ;  but,  look 
ing  beyond  these  things,  as  mere  circumstances 
to  which  the  imagination  mainly  gives  impor 
tance,  he  told  his  hearers  of  the  innocence  of 
childhood  upon  earth,  and  the  holiness  of 
childhood  in  heaven,  and  how  the  beautiful 
Lord  Jesus  was  once  a  little  child,  and  now  in 
heaven  the  spirits  of  little  children  walked 
with  him,  and  gathered  flowers  in  the  fields 
of  Paradise.  Good  old  man  !  In  behalf  of 
humanity,  I  thank  thee  for  these  benignant 
words !  And  still  more  than  I,  the  bereaved 
mother  thanked  thee  ;  and  from  that  hour, 
though  she  wept  in  secret  for  her  child,  yet 

"  She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked 
forth  alone  into  the  churchyard.  There  was 
no  one  there,  save  a  little  boy,  who  was  fishing 
with  a  pin  hook  in  a  grave  half  full  of  water. 
But  a  few  moments  afterward,  through  the 
arched  gateway  under  the  belfry  came  a  fu- 


A  Romance  375 

neral  procession.  At  its  head  walked  a  priest 
in  white  surplice,  chanting.  Peasants,  old  and 
young,  followed  him,  with  burning  tapers  in 
their  hands.  A  young  girl  carried  in  her 
arms  a  dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little  wind 
ing-sheet.  The  grave  was  close  under  the 
wall,  by  the  church-door.  A  vase  of  holy 
water  stood  beside  it.  The  sexton  took  the 
child  from  the  girl's  arms,  and  put  it  into  a 
coffin  ;  and,  as  he  placed  it  in  the  grave,  the 
girl  held  over  it  a  cross  wreathed  with  roses, 
and  the  priest  and  peasants  sang  a  funeral 
hymn.  When  this  was  over,  the  priest  sprin 
kled  the  grave  and  the  crowd  with  holy  water ; 
and  then  they  all  went  into  the  church,  each 
one  stopping,  as  he  passed  the  grave,  to  throw 
a  handful  of  earth  into  it,  and  sprinkle  it  with 
the  hyssop. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the 
priest  was  heard  saying  mass  in  the  church, 
and  Flemming  saw  the  toothless  old  sexton 
treading,  with  his  clouted  shoes,  the  fresh 
earth  into  the  grave  of  the  little  child.  He 
approached  him,  and  asked  the  age  of  the 
deceased.  The  sexton  leaned  a  moment  on 
his  spade,  and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  re 
plied  :  — 


376  Hyperion 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in 
the  night,  and  died  this  morning  early." 

"A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "  The 
child  seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be 
buried  and  have  its  name  recorded  on  a 
wooden  tombstone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and 
made  no  reply.  Flemming  still  lingered 
among  the  graves,  gazing  with  wonder  at 
the  strange  devices  by  which  man  has  ren 
dered  death  horrible  and  the  grave  loath 
some. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and 
his  twin-brother,  Death,  were  represented  aa 
children  reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On 
various  funeral  monuments  of  the  ancients 
the  Genius  of  Death  is  sculptured  as  a  beau 
tiful  youth,  leaning  on  an  inverted  torch,  in 
the  attitude  of  repose,  his  wings  folded  and 
his  feet  crossed.  In  such  peaceful  and  attrac 
tive  forms  did  the  imagination  of  ancient  poets 
and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these 
were  men  in  whose  souls  the  religion  of  Na 
ture  was  like  the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but 
faint  and  cold  !  Strange,  that,  in  later  cays, 
this  angel  of  God,  which  leads  us  with  a  gentle 
hand  into  the  "  land  of  the  great  departed, 


A  Romance  377 


into  the  silent  land/'  should  have  been  trans 
formed  into  a  monstrous  and  terrific  thing  ! 
Such  is  the  spectral  rider  on  the  white 
horse  ;  — such  the  ghastly  skeleton  with  scythe 
and  hour-glass,  —  the  Reaper,  whose  name  is 
Death  ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry 
and  painting  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  continu 
ing  down  even  into  modern  times,  was  the 
Dance  of  Death.  In  almost  all  languages,  is 
it  written,  —  the  apparition  of  the  grim  spec 
tre  putting  a  sudden  stop  to  all  business,  and 
leading  men  away  into  the  "  remarkable  re 
tirement  "  of  the  grave.  It  is  written  in  an 
ancient  Spanish  poem,  and  painted  on  a  wood 
en  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The  designs  of 
Holbein  are  well  known.  The  most  striking 
among  them  is  that,  where,  from  a  group  of 
children  sitting  round  a  cottage  hearth,  Death 
has  taken  one  by  the  hand,  and  is  leading  it 
out  of  the  door.  Quietly  and  unresisting  goes 
the  little  child,  and  in  its  countenance  no  grief, 
but  wonder  only  ;  while  the  other  children  are 
weeping  and  stretching  forth  their  hands  in 
vain  towards  their  departing  brother.  It  is 
a  beautiful  design,  in  all  save  the  skeleton. 
An  angel  had  been  better,  with  folded  wings, 
und  torch  inverted 


37&  Hyperion 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and 
warm.  A  little  chapel,  whose  door  stood 
open,  seemed  to  invite  Flemming  to  enter 
and  enjoy  the  grateful  coolness.  He  went 
in.  There  was  no  one  there.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  paintings  and  sculpture  of  the 
rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets. 
There  was  nothing  there  to  move  the  heart 
to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of 
Flemming  was  weak,  —  weak  as  a  child's.  He 
bowed  his  stubborn  knees,  and  wept.  And,  O, 
how  many  disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bit 
ter  recollections,  how  much  of  wounded  pride 
and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears  through 
which  he  read,  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel 
wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscription  :  — 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It 
comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the 
Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the 
shadowy  Future,  without  fear,  and  with  a 
manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant 
of  that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and 
spoken  to  him  the  words  of  consolation,  which 
his  soul  needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet 
spoken.  In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his 
thoughts  was  still.  The  stone  was  rolled  away 


A   Komance  379 

from  the  door  of  his  heart  ;  death  was  no 
longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in  white. 
He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more 
bleared  with  tears  ;  and,  looking  into  the 
bright  morning  heaven,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with 
painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces 
of  their  departed  friends  ;  and  as  they  gaze 
upon  them,  lying  there  so  peacefully  with 
the  semblance  that  they  wore  on  earth,  the 
sweet  breath  of  heaven  touches  them,  and 
the  features  crumble  and  fall  together,  and 
are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then  descend 
for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of  the 
Past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once 
more  the  dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved  ; 
and  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven  touched  them, 
and  they  would  not  stay,  but  crumbled  away 
and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  w'ere 
dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard  the 
great  gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him,  as 
the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  Paradise, 
when  the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the 
Holy  Mountain  ;  and  to  him  likewise  was  it 
forbidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  there  are  sudden 


380  Hyperion 

transitions  of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  mi 
raculous.  At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had 
touched  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  dark 
clouds  melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and 
seienity  succeeds  the  storm.  The  causes 
which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may 
have  been  long  at  work  within  us  ;  but  the 
changes  themselves  are  instantaneous,  and 
apparently  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was 
so  with  Flemming  ;  and  from  that  hour  forth 
he  resolved  that  he  would  no  longer  veer 
with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance, — 
no  longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands 
of  Fate,  which  we  ourselves  do  make  or  mar. 
He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean  on 
others  ;  but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self- 
possessed  ;  —  no  longer  to  waste  his  years  in 
vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment  of  bound 
less  hopes  and  indiscreet  desires  ;  but  to  live 
in  'the  Present  wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the 
Past,  and  careless  of  what  the  mysterious 
Future  might  bring.  And  from  that  moment 
he  was  calm  and  strong  ;  he  was  reconciled 
with  himself.  His  thoughts  turned  to  his 
distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An  indescrib 
able  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

"  Thither  will   I   turn  my  wandering  foot- 


A  Romance  381 

steps,"  said  he,  "  and  be  a  man  among  men, 
and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows. 
Henceforth  be  mine  a  life  of  action  and  real 
ity  !  I  will  work  in  my  own  sphere,  nor  wish 
it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is  health  and 
happiness.  This  alone  is  Life, — 

'Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend  ! ' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections, 
this  wise  resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple 
result  spring  only  from  the  long  and  intricate 
process  of  experience  ?  Alas  !  it  is  not  till 
time,  with  reckless  hand,  has  torn  out  half 
the  leaves  from  the  Book  of  Human  Life,  to 
light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from  day  to 
day,  that  man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves 
which  remain  are  few  in  number,  and  to  re 
member,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly, 
that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book  was 
written  a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he 
would  fain  read  over  again.  Then  come  list 
less  irresolution,  and  the  inevitable  inaction 
of  despair  ;  or  else  the  firm  resolve  to  record 
upon  the  leaves  that  still  remain  a  more  noble 
history  than  the  child's  story  with  which  the 
book  began." 


382  Hyperion 


CHAPTER    IX, 
The  Last  Pang 

"  T^AREWELL  to  thce,  Saint  Gilgen  ! " 
*  said  Flemming,  as  he  turned  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  to  take  his  last  look  at  the 
lake  and  the  village  below,  and  felt  that  this 
was  one  of  the  few  spots  on  the  wide  earth 
to  which  he  could  say  farewell  with  regret. 
"  Thy  majestic  hills  have  impressed  them 
selves  upon  my  soul,  as  a  seal  upon  wax. 
The  quiet  beauty  of  thy  lake  shall  be  to  me 
forever  an  image  of  peace  and  purity  and  still 
ness,  and  that  inscription  in  thy  little  church 
yard  a  sentence  of  wisdom  for  my  after  life." 
Before  the  setting  of  the  same  sun  which 
then  shone  on  that  fair  landscape,  he  was  far 
on  his  way  towards  Munich.  He  had  left 
behind  him  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol  ;  and 
beheld  them  for  the  last  time  in  the  soft 
evening  twilight,  their  bases  green  with  for 
est-trees,  and  here  and  there  a  sharp  rocky 
spire,  and  a  rounded  summit  capped  with 


A  Romance  383 

snow.  There  they  lay,  their  backs  like  the 
backs  of  camels  ;  a  mighty  caravan,  reposing 
at  evening  in  its  march  across  the  desert. 

From  Munich  he  passed  through  Augsburg 
and  Ulm,  on  his  way  to  Stuttgard.  At  the 
entrances  of  towns  and  villages,  he  saw  large 
crucifixes  ;  and  on  the  fronts  of  many  houses, 
coarse  paintings  and  images  of  saints.  In 
Gunzburg  three  priests  in  black  were  slowly 
passing  down  the  street,  and  women  fell  on 
their  knees  to  receive  a  blessing.  There  were 
many  beggars,  too,  in  the  streets  ;  and  an  old 
man  who  was  making  hay  in  a  field  by  the 
road-side,  when  he  saw  the  carriage  approach 
ing,  threw  down  his  rake,  and  came  tumbling 
over  the  ditch,  uttering  the  most  dismal  wail, 
with  his  hat  held  out  in  both  hands.  The 
next  day,  the  bright  yellow  jackets  of  the 
postilions,  and  the  two  great  tassels  of  their 
bugle-horns,  dangling  down  their  backs,  like 
cauliflowers,  told  him  he  was  in  Wiirtemberg  ; 
and,  late  in  the  evening,  he  stopped  at  a  hotel 
in  Stuttgard,  and  from  his  chamber-window 
saw,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  the  old  Gothic 
cathedral,  with  its  narrow,  lancet  windows 
and  jutting  buttresses,  right  in  front  of  him. 
Erelong  he  had  forgotten  all  his  cares  and 


384  Hyperion 

sorrows  in  sleep,  and  with  them  his   hopes, 
and  wishes,  and  good  resolves. 

He  was  still  sitting  at  breakfast  in  his 
chamber,  the  next  morning,  when  the  great 
bell  of  the  cathedral  opposite  began  to  ring, 
and  reminded  him  that  it  was  Sunday.  Ere 
long  the  organ  answered  from  within,  and 
from  its  golden  lips  breathed  forth  a  psalm. 
The  congregation  began  to  assemble,  and 
Flemming  went  up  with  them  to  the  house 
of  the  Lord.  In  the  body  of  the  church  he 
found  the  pews  all  rilled  or  locked  ;  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  families.  He  went  up 
into  the  gallery,  and  looked  over  the  psalm- 
book  of  a  peasant,  while  the  congregation 
sang  the  sublime  old  hymn  of  Martin  Lu 
ther,  — 

"Our  God,  he  is  a  tcnver  of  strength, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon." 

During  the  singing,  a  fat  clergyman,  clad  in 
black,  with  a  surplice   thrown  loosely  about 
him,   came   pacing   along   one   of   the   aisles, 
from   beneath   the    organ-loft,   and    ascended 
the  pulpit.     After  the  hymn,  he  read  a  por 
tion  of  Scripture,  and  then  said :  — 
"  Let  us  unite  in  silent  prayer." 
And  turning  round,  he  knelt  in  the  pulpit, 


A  Romance  385 

while  the  congregation  remained  standing. 
For  a  while  there  was  a  breathless  silence 
in  the  church,  which  to  Flemming  was  more 
solemnly  impressive  than  any  audible  prayer. 
The  clergyman  then  arose,  and  began  his 
sermon.  His  theme  was  the  Reformation  ; 
and  he  attempted  to  prove  how  much  easier 
it  was  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
through  the  gateways  of  the  Reformed  Evan 
gelical  German  Church,  than  by  the  aisles 
and  penitential  staircases  of  Saint  Peter's. 
He  then  gave  a  history  of  the  Reformation  ; 
and  when  Flemming  thought  he  was  near 
the  end,  he  heard  him  say  that  he  should 
divide  his  discourse  into  four  heads.  This 
reminded  him  of  the  sturdy  old  Puritan,  Cot 
ton  Mather,  who,  after  preaching  an  hour, 
would  coolly  turn  the  hour-glass  on  the  pul 
pit,  and  say :  "  Now,  my  beloved  hearers,  let 
us  take  another  glass."  He  stole  out  into 
the  silent,  deserted  street,  and  went  to  visit 
the  veteran  sculptor  Dannecker.  He  found 
him  sitting  alone,  with  his  psalm-book,  and 
the  reminiscences  of  a  life  of  eighty  years. 
As  Flemming  entered,  he  arose  from  the 
sofa,  and  tottered  towards  him  ;  a  venerable 
old  man  of  low  stature,  dressed  in  a  loose 
17  Y 

7 


386  Hyperion 

white  jacket,  with  a  face  like  Franklin's,  a 
pale  blue  eye,  and  his  white  hair  flowing  over 
his  shoulders. 

"  So  you  are  from  America,"  said  he.  "  But 
you  have  a  German  name.  Paul  Flemming 
was  one  of  our  old  poets.  I  have  never 
been  in  America,  and  never  shall  go  there. 
I  am  now  too  old.  I  have  been  in  Paris 
and  in  Rome.  But  that  was  long  ago.  I 
am  now  eight-and-seventy  years  old." 

Here  he  took  Flemming  by  the  hand,  and 
made  him  sit  down  by  his  side,  on  the  sofa. 
And  Flemming  felt  a  mysterious  awe  creep 
over  him,  on  touching  the  hand  of  the  good 
old  man,  who  sat  so  serenely  amid  the  gather 
ing  shade  of  years,  and  listened  to  life's  cur 
few-bell,  telling,  with  eight-and-seventy  solemn 
strokes,  that  the  hour  had  come  when  the 
fires  of  all  earthly  passion  must  be  quenched 
within,  and  man  must  prepare  to  lie  down 
and  rest  till  the  morning. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  in  a  melancholy 
tone,  "  my  hands  are  cold  ;  colder  than  yours. 
They  were  warmer  once.  I  am  now  an  old 
man." 

"  Yet  these  are  the  hands,"  answered  Flem 
ming,  "  that  sculptured  the  beautiful  Ariadne 


A  Romance  387 

and  the  Panther.  The  soul  never  grows 
old." 

"  Nor  does  Nature,"  said  the  old  man, 
pleased  with  this  allusion  to  his  great  work, 
and  pointing  to  the  green  trees  before  his 
window.  "  This  pleasure  I  have  left  to  me. 
My  sight  is  still  good.  I  can  even  distin 
guish  objects  on  the  side  of  yonder  moun 
tain.  My  hearing  is  also  unimpaired.  For 
all  which  I  thank  God." 

Then,  directing  Flemming's  attention  to  a 
fine  engraving,  which  hung  on  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  room,  he  continued  :  — 

"  That  is  an  engraving  of  Canova's  Re 
ligion.  I  love  to  sit  here  and  look  at  it,  for 
hours  together.  It  is  beautiful.  He  made 
the  statue  for  his  native  town,  where  they 
had  no  church  until  he  built  them  one.  He 
placed  the  statue  in  it.  This  engraving  he 
sent  me  as  a  present.  Ah,  he  was  a  dear, 
good  man.  The  name  of  his  native  town  I 
have  forgotten.  My  memory  fails  me.  I 
cannot  remember  names." 

Fearful  that  he  had  disturbed  the  old  man 
in  his  morning  devotions,  Flemming  did  not 
remain  long,  but  took  his  leave  with  regret. 
There  was  something  impressive  in  the  scene 


388  Hyperion 

he  had  witnessed  ;  —  this  beautiful  old 
of  the  artist  ;  sitting  by  the  open  window,  in 
the  bright  summer  morning,  —  the  labor  of 
life  accomplished,  the  horizon  reached,  where 
heaven  and  earth  meet,  —  thinking  it  was 
angel's  music,  when  he  heard  the  church-bells 
~ing  ;  himself  too  old  to  go.  As  he  walked 
back  to  his  chamber,  he  thought  within  him 
self  whether  he  likewise  might  not  accom 
plish  something  which  should  live  after  him, 
-might  not  bring  something  permanent  out 
^f  this  fast-fleeting  life,  and  then  sit  down, 
like  the  artist,  in  serene  old  age,  and  fold 
his  hands  in  silence.  He  wondered  how  a 
man  felt  when  he  grew  so  old  that  he  could 
no  longer  go  to  church,  but  must  sit  at  home 
&nd  read  the  Bible  in  large  print.  His  heart 
was  full  of  indefinite  longings,  mingled  with 
regrets  ;  longings  to  accomplish  something 
worthy  of  life  ;  regret  that  as  yet  he  had  ac 
complished  nothing,  but  had  felt  and  dreamed 
only.  Thus  the  warm  days  in  spring  bring 
forth  passion-flowers  and  forget-me-nots.  It 
is  only  after  midsummer,  when  the  days  grow 
shorter  and  hotter,  that  fruit  begins  to  appear. 
Then  the  heat  of  the  day  brings  forward  the 
harvest,  and  after  the  harvest  the  leaves  tall, 


A  Romance  389 

and  there  is  a  gray  frost.  Much  meditating 
upon  these  things,  Paul  Flemming  reached 
his  hotel.  At  that  moment  a  person  clad 
in  green  came  down  the  church  steps,  and 
crossed  the  street.  It  was  the  German  me 
chanic  of  Interlachen.  Flemming  started,  as 
if  a  green  snake  had  suddenly  crossed  his 
path.  He  took  refuge  in  his  chamber. 

That  night,  as  he  was  sitting  alone,  having 
made  his  preparations  to  depart  the  following 
morning,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  a  female  voice  in  the  next  room.  A 
thin  partition,  with  a  door,  separated  it  from 
his  own.  He  had  not  before  observed  that  the 
room  was  occupied.  But,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  the  tones  of  that  voice  struck  his  ear. 
He  listened.  It  was  a  lady,  reading  the  pray 
ers  of  the  English  Church.  The  tones  w%ere 
familiar,  and  awakened  at  once  a  thousand 
painfully  sweet  recollections.  It  was  the  voice 
of  Mary  Ashburton  !  His  heart  could  not  be 
deceived  ;  and  all  its  wounds  began  to  bleed 
afresh,  like  those  of  a  murdered  man  when 
the  murderer  approaches.  His  first  impulse 
was  of  affection  only,  boundless,  irrepressible, 
delirious,  as  of  old  in  tne  green  valley  of 
Interlachen.  He  waited  ior  the  voice  to  cease, 


39°  Hyperion 

that  he  might  go  to  her,  and  behold  her 
face  once  more.  And  then  his  pride  rose 
up  within  him,  and  rebuked  this  weakness. 
He  remembered  his  firm  resolve,  and  blushed 
to  find  himself  so  feeble.  And  the  voice 
ceased,  and  yet  he  did  not  go.  Pride  had 
so  far  gained  the  mastery  over  affection.  He 
lay  down  upon  his  bed,  like  a  child  as  he  was. 
All  about  him  was  silence,  and  the  silence 
was  holy,  for  she  was  near  ;  so  near,  that  he 
could  almost  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
He  knew  now  for  the  first  time  how  weak 
he  was,  and  how  strong  was  his  passion  for 
that  woman.  His  heart  was  like  the  altar 
of  the  Israelites  of  old  ;  and,  though  drenched 
with  tears,  as  with  rain,  it  was  kindled  at 
once  by  the  holy  fire  from  heaven  ! 

Jowards  morning  he  fell  asleep,  exhausted 
with  the  strong  excitement ;  and,  in  that  hour, 
when,  sleep  being  "  nigh  unto  the-  soul,"  vis 
ions  are  deemed  prophetic,  he  dreamed.  O 
blessed  vision  of  the  morning,  stay !  thou  wast 
so  fair!  He  stood  again  on  the  green  sunny 
meadow,  beneath  the  ruined  tower ;  and  she 
was  by  his  side,  with  her  pale,  speaking  coun 
tenance  and  holy  eyes  ;  and  he  kissed  her  fair 
forehead  ;  and  she  turned  her  face  towards 


A   Romance  391 

him,  beaming  with  affection,  and  said,  "  I 
confess  it  now  ;  you  are  the  Magician ! "  and 
pressed  him  in  a  meek  embrace,  that  he 
"  might  rather  feel  than  see  the  swelling  of 
her  heart."  And  then  she  faded  away  from 
his  arms,  and  her  face  became  transfigured, 
and  her  voice  like  the  voice  of  an  angel  in 
heaven  ;  —  and  he  awoke,  and  was  alone  ! 

It  was  broad  daylight  ;  and  he  heard  the 
postilion  and  the  stamping  of  horses'  hoofs 
on  the  pavement  at  the  door.  He  did  not 
dare  to  stay.  But,  throwing  himself  into  the 
carriage,  he  cast  one  look  towards  the  window 
of  the  Dark  Ladie,  and  a  moment  afterwards 
had  left  her  for  ever  I  He  had  drunk  the  last 
drop  of  the  bitter  cup,  and  now  laid  the  gold 
en  goblet  gently  down,  knowing  that  he  should 
behold  it  no  more  ! 

No  more !  O,  how  majestically  mournful 
are  those  words !  They  sound  like  the  roar 
of  the  wind  through  a  forest  of  pines  ! 


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